

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 1 

Chap.IP.Z3Copyright No. 

Shelf.. 2.5 V 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 








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lUM 5 


Virginia. 


Prehistoric and Antebellum. 

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PRC8S or 

Dance Brothers Comranv, 
Danville, Virginia. 
1899 . 




PART FIRST. 


V 


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[CoPYKiGiiT Applied for.] 

TWO CUP'iiio KiO^lVcLD, 



■isu.a,' 


UNCLE YORKE. 

You can’t make much out of circles, 

And a great deal out of straight lines ; 

The circle is visionary, inasmuch as you go a long distance 
to come back to the point from which you start. 

The straight line is truth ; 

But a combination of these two, in lines of grace and 
beauty — is Genius. 


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[These are reminiscences of my Father’s time, and not 
mine, and must not be supposed to refer to anyone now 
living.] 
















UNCLE YORKE. 


U NCLE YORKE was a noted character in his day, 
a day gone by, for Uncle Yorke flourished in the 
early part of this century, and as he said himself, 
nobody knew when he was born. 

He was an old free negro, of great height, who lived 
alone in a log hut on the banks of the river, and made 
the most of his living selling fish on the Saturday Mar- 
ket. On Saturdays, the boys’ holidays, they would con- 
gregate around the old man, and watch him envyingly, 
as he would draw fish after fish, from the water, while, 
perhaps, only a “glorious nibble” would be their reward 
from hours of patient fishing. 

But the sight of his successes would inspire fresh 
hopes to sinking souls. 

“I wish you would tell me how you do it?” a wistful 
voice would plead. 

“Taint no manner o’ use ter tell you, nor yit ter show 
you. Dout you jess nacherally knows, you jess well go 
berry dem baits, kase de fish aint gwine ter bite.” A 
very discouraging daihper to ambitious young fisher- 
men. 

“Why, Uncle Yorke?” 

“Kase.” 

Now “Kase” in Uncle Yorke’s mouth was an extin- 
guisher, and finished up that subject. 

He was a great favorite, however, with the boys, and 
his greatest attraction was his facility for telling stories, 
for he claimed to have fought through the Revolution- 


10 


Virginia. 


ary war, and to have been one of G-en. Washington’s 
body-guard. To have been one of that multitudinous 
body was a patent of nobility for his race; and as the 
survivors of the war were fast dying out, many claimed 
the honor, feeling securer as the time went by that there 
would be none to controvert the statement. 

He told marvellous stories of that era, each account 
becoming more and more marvellous, but he allowed 
nobody to call him to account over any statement. 
Whether he had told them so often that he believed 
them himself, or only wanted to see how far credulity 
could be carried, I do not know. But they soared 
higher and higher in heights of mendacity until I 
shudder to think how far they might have gone, if 
Uncle Yorke hadn’t died. Perhaps he wanted to see 
how far his imagination could fly. It was a pity for 
some of them to be beyond the bounds of belief, for they 
were vastly entertaining and were listened to with the 
kind of admiration that a ghost story excites. Ghost 
stories they undoubtedly were, if stories, with only a 
slight foundation of fact, may be called such. 

Tom’s ’possum hunt is intended principally to show 
the old man’s arbitrary ways, and most of the ques- 
tions asked were, with the wings of flight, plumed for 
instant use. But the stories, or the magnetism that 
alights here and there on individuals, widely differing 
in characteristics, held these boys spell-bound many a 
Spring and Summer afternoon. 

He had frequently been in various straits, in which 
Tom’s parents had helped him out, which accounts for 
his partiality for that ‘‘young America.” 


UNCLE YORKE’S WASHINGTON. 


T his is the favorite subject of conversation, in the 
days bordering on Washington’s own time, and 
excites enthusiasm — a devouring and adoring in- 
terest that one can hardly understand, unless he can 
transport himself back to the days when ^‘First in war, 
first in peace, and first In the hearts of his countrymen,” 
was said with a sound of exultation in the voice, equal 
to a hurrah. Imagine all said in accents of rising as- 
tonishment, for however often they hear Uncle Yorke’s 
narration there is usually a new boy who hears it for 
the first time, and the others call out all his powers 
to impress the circumstances sensationally, and it would 
never do to even insinuate that any part was an “ower 
told tale.” 

They will commence something after this style : 
“Uncle Yorke, I heard that you say that you saw Gen- 
eral Washington ?” 

“Saw him ! Menny and menny a time. Saw him ! 
I was one of Mars’ Ginerul Washingtum’s bodyguards.” 
“You don’t say so ?” 

“I does say so ! Yes, I does say so ! I was one dem 
’portant offcurs; an’ I tells you dat ’twas much as a man’s 
wuth ter stan’ up ter it. I was same’s dat man’s shad- 
der. Bf he were dar — dar I was. Bf he turned, I was 
a- turning. Bf he was wake, I was settin’ dar watchim 
of him. Bf he war sleep, I was outside dat dore in a 
minit, ter keep udder folks frum pesterin’ ov him. I 
war closer dan a shadder, kase a shadder jess foller in 


12 


Virginia. 


de suhshine; but fyar wedder or fowl wedder, I was 
walkin afore him ter bresh de briers outen his parth, 
or I was walkin’ long side o’ him takin of his messages, 
or I was a-follering long hinst him, ter keep people frum 
sprigin’ him. Ef yer don’t call dat knowin’ ot him, 
what does yer call it ?” 

“He was a great man, wasn’t he ?” 

“He was so ! He was so ! Fokes in dese days aint 
got de fust idee ’bout dat man.” 

“How big was he. Uncle Yorke?” 

“Well, you see dat house dar ?” pointing to his own; 
small for a house, but large for a man. “He looked big 
as dat house, an’ bigger. He moughtnt been so big, but 
he jess lookt big. He couldn’t a got in dat dore, dough, 
dout lowerin’ hissef, mightly. Ter give yer sum idee 
how big dat man did look, Mars’ Genrul’s sword (Uncle 
Yorke pronounces it as if it were spelled with a capital 
“S” and accents the “w” and Tom always feels that a 
sword is curtailed of its proper proportions, if pro- 
nounced aright, forever afterwards.) “Mars’ Genrul’s 
sword was ober six feet long, an’ more’n dat. An’ yer 
knows dat it takes a powerful man ter wrastle wid a 
sword six feet long. Now yer all knows dat yerself.” 

“I never saw a sword six feet long. Uncle Yorke.” 

“Nor chile, heeps a things you aint seed, nor, an’ ain’t 
nuvver gwin ter see. An’ r-i-c-h ! Rich warnt de word 
fer dat man ! Menny an’ menny a time has I walked 
ahine him, an’ jess picked up de gole dollars whar jess 
drapped outen his pockets as he walked long frunt o’ 
me, an’ he ain’t nuvver missed de fust one o’ dem. I 
ought ter been rich, too, wid de chances I has had. You 


Uncle Yorkers Washington, 13 

ain’t nuvver seed nuthin’ like dat, now has are one o’ 
you ?” 

They can truthfully say no. 

‘‘Once ’pon a time Mars’ Washingtum was marchin’ 
long sides ov de army, showin’ dem how ter keep step; 
an’ I steppin’ long jess ahinst him — I dun tole you dat 
I was his bodyguard, ain’t I ?” 

“Yes, Oh yes !” 

“Well, he says. Mars’ Washingtum, he says : ‘Unc 
Yorke, tek keer 0’ dis heer s^cratchal fer me — its wurth 
millyuns, millyuns.’ Yer kin see by dat, how hetrus’ me?” 

“I should think so!” 

“An’ I tuk keer ov it, and dough dar was millyuns ov 
gole dollars in dat carpet bag, I nuvver toched one ov 
dem. You couldn’t say much as dat fer yersefs, now, 
could yer ?” 

“I should think it must have been a great temptation.” 

“Ah ! Dem was de good ole times. Dey don’t make 
darkies hones’ as dat, in dese days, like I was den.” 

“But, uncle Yorke, do you think a million of dollars 
could get in a carpet bag ?” 

“Think so ? I knows it 1 I done counted dem too 
offen ter be enny doubts on dat subjick. (I have grave 
doubts as to whether Uncle Yorke could count a hun- 
dred, straight along. While he never makes a mistake 
as to change, he seems to arrive at his results by some 
species of clairvoyance.) 

“I thought you said just now that you never touched 
them ?” 

“So’s I did I 1 nuvver touched one wid de idee ov 
stickin’ ter my fingers, but countin’ dem, jess freehanded. 


14 


Virginia, 


aint de same, a tall. I dun digged my hans ter de elbo, 
down deep in dat munny, ober and ober again. I tells 
you, dough twant mine, twas a good sort o^ feelin’ ” — 

“But Uncle Yorke — when General Washington drop- 
ped all that money out of his pockets in the road, how 
come you didn’t pick it up and give it back to him?” 

This is said in rather a hesitating voice, and is trend- 
ing to dangerous ground. 

“Huccum ? Huccum ? Kase, chile, a great big high- 
minded fust-class gentlemun, like Mars’ Ginrul George 
Washingtum, wud scron ter lessen himself by taking dat 
munny outen a po darkey’s ban, arfter it dun loss itself 
long his parth. You all don’t seem ter understan’ de 
feelings ov a rostrocrat like quality chillen ought ter! 
Menny an menny a time has I offered it back ter him, 
an he say: ‘Keep it fer a keepsake. Uncle Yorke, jess 
keep it!’ Arfter dem words, I kep it dout troubblin 
myself f ether. I knows how ter ’have myself, ef sum 
others don’t. Dere ain’t noboddy in dis heer town dun 
ben raised bettern I has, ef I does ha’ ter say it fer my- 
self. I ain’t gwine ter stan’ back on raisin’ wid enny- 
boddy — big er little — black er white — rich er po — high 
er low!” 

“Wasn’t it hard work walking all that way, Uncle 
Yorke?” 

“Walkin’ yer say. Walkin’? ’Cepfc ’pon ’cassions 
like dat, he nuvver, nuvver walked. Ain’t yer done 
seed none o’ dem picters wid Mars’ Washingtum long- 
sides er horse? Well, dat horse warn’t none o’ hisn’, 
but jess sot dar ter sinnify dat he could ride whensum- 
uvver he chuse. He uset fer ter ride uvverywhar ! An’ 


Uncle YorkeU Washington, 


15 


I tellg you, twere better dan enny pictyer, fer ter see dat 
charyut an’ dem six horses — two was black, an’ two was 
white, an’ two was dapple grey ; au’ four outriders ! 
Two fer ter open gates, and two was fer ter take terns 
shettin’ ov dem. Dey rode, de ones in frunt ’pon cream 
colored horses, an’ de ones whar rode behind ’pon red 
horses. An’ I bet a sixpunce (dat is ef I had one ter 
spar) dat you nuvver knowed dat dat song dat uvery 
one o’ yer mammies dun sung you ter sleep wid, was de 
same song made ’bout dat same charyut, an’ dem same 
horses, fer ter ’courage you ter try an’ be like ole 
Mars’ Ginrul, kase he were bigger dan ennyboddy dat 
you uver seed, er uver gwine ter see, twell yer gits ter 
Heaven an’ sees him, ef yer uver gits dar — an’ I has my 
douts !” 

“Was the chariot gold. Uncle Yorke?” 

“Now yer know dat six horses couldn’t pull a gole 
charyut ober dese rodes ’bout beer, arfter a spell 0’ 
failin’ wedder; an’ what was de use ter ax? No, de 
charyut warnt gole; dough gole wouldn’t a bin too 
good fer dat man. But twarnt gole, dough ’twas gole 
trimmed. An’ ’twas good as are show’ jess ter see Mars’ 
Ginrul step outen dat charyut an’ make a bow, wid his 
blue cote an’ brass buttons, an’ ruffles round his nake, 
an’ ruffles down his shut frunt, an’ ruffles round his 
hands, an’ hie har tied wid a bow er ribbin — an’ whiles 
I’m talkin’ ’bout de bow 0’ ribbin, I wisht one o’ you 
boys would ax yer ma er yer sister ter gin me a piece o’ 
black ribbin, ter tie my que, ter go ter meetin’ nex Sun- 
dy; kase dat las piece too rusty ter be spectabul (even fer 
me.) An’ he had dimon’ buckles on his knees, an’ 


i6 


Virginia. 


dimon’ buckles on his shoes, an^ he shined like he was 
fit ter go off like fireworks on de foth July.” 

^‘People don’t dress like that now, do they ?” 

“Pokes use ter dress fer ter suit theyseves, in dem 
days, an’ dey dressed more fer ter suit me, dough dey 
didn’t hav’ me in deir mines. But now dey all looks 
like, wid dier black close, same’s a passel o’ blackburds 
fixin’ ter fly Souf fer de winter. Ah, dem was times 
ter tell bout, when dey had silver goblets all flinging 
round de yard jes fer ter kick bout, an’ played de check - 
erbode wid twenty dollar gole pieces, stid o’ pieces ov 
bone an’ wood like I sees you meddlin’ long. Times 
ain’t as dey use ter was. I don’t see nobody doin’ dat 
sort o’ way now, does you ?” 

They have never seen checkerboards so adorned. 

“Uncle Yorke,” says a boy, after a pause to swallow 
the checkerboard and the goblets, “I heard Mr. Cheval- 
ier’s Bunty say that he was one of Ceneral Washington’s 
bodyguard too. Was he?” 

“Don’t be flingin’ dat Bunty up ter me.” (Bunty is 
the red rag.) “Kase, taint wuth whiles ter listen ter 
dat nigger’s racket, fer he warn’t in de New Nited 
States at de time. En durin’ dat whole time his fokes 
had all dun gwine ter Yurup and tuk Bunty wid dem. 
Mis Sallie, she had dun gone ober dar fer a trip an’ she 
staid dar. An’ she tuk Mammy wid her fer a maid, an’ 
Mammy warnt willin’ ter go dout she could take her 
chile wid her, an’ dat’s how Bunty cum ter be dar, but 
dar he was. An’ whence he cumed back he made out 
dat he couldn’t talk sames yedder fokes bout here, an’ 


Uncle Torhe's Washington. 


17 


had dun furgot all he knowed fore he went; an’ he 
didn’t know lo much ter spar, no ways. 

“Now dis is a sample 0’ dat nigger : One day I was 
up at Mis Sallie’s ’bout sum feesh, an’, as I went ’long 
in, I heard her tell Bunty ter go an’ tell Sylvy ter cum 
ter her right straight. Mis Sallie were sittin’ out ’pon 
de frunt porch, and dem’s dar her very words: ‘Bunty, 
go and tell Sylvy ter come here, an’ cum right straight.’ 
An’ stid o’ sayin’ what Mis Sallie dun say, Bunty 
cumed in whar I was, an’ say : 

“Seevee, Madame voo vur.” 

(“Sylvie, madame vous veut.”) 

“An’ ob corse Sylvy didn’t pay no ’tention to no sech 
foolishness as dat ; an’ by and by Bunty say it ober gin, 
an’ dat time Sylvy, say dat ef he didn’t git outen her 
kitchen wid his irapidenoe, dat she was gwine ter maul 
him wid de rollen pin. Sylvy didn’t set horses wid 
Mammy’s fokes no ways, kase she warnted Mis Sallie ter 
take her stid 0’ Mammy. An’ Bunty went up an’ tole 
Mis Sallie dat Sylvy didn’t say “Nono we,” an’ dat she 
warn’t cumin’. An’ den Mis Sallie cumed herself ter 
de top ov de stars, an’ say dat she would like fer Sylvy 
ter say dat message ter her, herself. An den I heerd her 
tell Sylvy dat she warn’t gwine ter gin her sugar in her 
coffee fer a solid week. An’ Sylvy didn’t know what 
Mis Sallie were drivin’ at. An’ Bunty say, dat he dun 
tole her, an’ Sylvy say dat Bunty hadn’t tole her nothin’. 
An’ ef I hadn’t tole Mis Sallie how it were, I dunno as 
Sylvy uver would a had eny sense bout it, an’ I know 
Bunty would a ketched it. An’ Mis Sallie jess larfed, 
an’ said dat Bunty could do dout de sugar stid 0’ Sylvy. 


i8 


Virginia. 


“Now don’t dat pruve dat he warnt fitten ter be no- 
body’s bodyguard, when he couldn’t understand no 
orders, an’ couldn’t gib none, in no better langwidg dan 
dat. 

“An’ I specs Mars’ Ginrul Washingtum would star, 
an star, ef he was ter come here an’ sees deir kerryins 
on. An’ dey knows it too! Did you know dat dey 
rung a bell uvery time dat dey parsed dat house ov 
Mars’ Washingtum’s — dat same Mount Werrum ? On 
dem boats dat paddle down dat same Jeames Kibber?” 

“Yes,” answers a little boy who has been on the Po- 
tomac, though he allows “Mount Wernum” to remain 
uncontradicted, 

“Well, does you know what fer ?” 

“Father says that it is respect for his memory” — 

“Respec’ fer his memry ! Yes, ’tis respec’ fer his 
memry — dats de way dey puts it, an’ a good way, too ; 
kase ef Mars’ Washingtum was ter cum back an’ see de 
way dey does, an’ heer de lies dey tells, dar’d be sum- 
thin’ chopped down ’sides cherry trees. 

“Dat bell rings ter keep his sperit down; down in de 
groun’. Don’t you know dat de soun ob bells keeps 
sperits down, an’ drives dem ’way ? An’ dats de way dey 
does things, an’ den dey f ergi ts de wharf er, an’ den here 
dey cum troopin’ long; an’ fixin’ all manner ob ’senses. 
I gwinter tell yer ’bout dat same Mount Wernum sum 
day, kase twant no mount ’tall. But I aint got time 
now, kase I got ter git dese feesh up ter de markit time 
nuff fer dem ter be cleaned fer Sunday’s brekfus.” 

“Did you ever see General Lafayette, Uncle Yorke ?” 


Uncle Yorkers Washington. 


19 


“Menny an’ menny a time! Him an’ me was well 
’guainted, so to speak — great cronies.” 

‘‘Was General Lafayette big like General Washington?” 

“Well, he moughtnt ha’ bin so tall, but he was power- 
ful spread out. Menny and menny a time has he larfed 
at de room he tuk up, whilst we was scrougin round de 
fire, an me brilin his bacon fer him.” 

“Did you see him when he came back after the war 
and staid in Richmond ?” 

^ “Yes, I seed him, but he didnt see me, and twant fit- 
ten for a po’ nigger like me ter go pushin’ hissef ’bout 
an’ forruds mongst white folks like Mars’ Lafeart.” 

“Father saw him,” says one of the boys. “He didn’t 
say that he was as large as all that.” 

“Likely he mought ha’ swaged sence dem times. 
Twant no use ter keep up all dat bigedness after de war 
was ober. You see ’twas sum sich a way as dis : De 
bearnets had dun picked up and off de most ob be big- 
ges’ an’ lef’ mosely runts; kase I don’t see no sech fokes 
now dat look big as dey did den. You see me, an’ you 
see my size ? Well, dey called me small den, an’ ef I’m 
small — But you don’t see no sich big lookin’ fokes now 
as dey was den ? Dey suttenly don’ look so, does dey ?” 

“Not so big as all that; no.” 

“But may be its like deinjun’s, showin’ yer how ter 
warwhoop. It don’t sound so moughty fearsum, but ef 
you was ter heer dat soun’ whar it b’longs, I lay you’d 
wish you was deef, dum’, an’ blin’, an absent minded, an’ 
sumwhars else.” 

“But I warnt no sumwhars else when he cum long dat 
day. He went to take dinner wid Mis’ Lisbuth. She 


20 


Virginia. 


warnt feard o’ nobody, Mis’ Lisbuth warnt, an’ she had 
dun name one de chillun arter him, ‘Lefeart’, an’ dun 
drest him up in velvet and ruffles, wid his har all curlt 
down his back, an’ his pa tole him, dat ef he would make 
a little speech ter Mars’ Lafeart, dat he would gin him 
de bigges dollar dat he cud rake an scrape. An’ so when 
de Markis cum in he sot up an’ said it off like his prars, 
an’ his pa gin him de dollar an’ den sot him down on de 
floor an’ went in ter dinaer and forgot all ’bout him. 
De chillun didn’t eat wid de grown fokes in dem times. 
An’ what you think he did wid dat dollar?” 

“Bought apples and cakes and candy, I bet.” 

“No.” 

“Put a hole through it and tied it round his neck and 
kept it forever ?” 

“Not he.” 

“Lost it ?” 

“No.” 

“Gave it away ?” 

“Well, not ’zactly. He went ’long up street an’ cum 
back wid a bag full ov haf cents, an’ sot down dar on 
dat ribber banks an’ chucked de lass one ov dem in dat 
black mud fer de wharf rats ter dive after. Den he 
went home, an’ he had dim spilt all dem nice close, an’ 
his pa gin him a thrashsn’, an’ I aint gwin ter say dat 
he didn’t sarve it righteously. An’ he said dat he didn’t 
want ter be named no Lafeart noways, an’ dat he warnt 
gwin ter anser ter dat name agin longs he lived, an’ he 
didn’t. An’ ’twas jess as well, kase all de darkeys ’bout 
here gan ter change deir names ter Markis dis, an’ La- 


Uncle Yorkers Washington, 


21 


feart dat, an’ Markis Lafeart tuther, twell at lass twarnt 
no name to go by ’tall. 

“But he was a sofe hearted little ehap as uver lived. 
Once, on a cold, frosty day, I seed him take offen his 
shoes off his owe feet an’ gin dem ter a beggar boy on 
de rode, an’ walk long home barfut. But, like as not, 
he wanted ter go barfut, an’ thort it was a good chanst, 
an’ his mar wouldn’t let him ’thout sum ’scuse.” 

“Did he get a whipping then ?” 

“I dunno whuther de did or not. Dat was de way he 
'counted fer der shoes.” 

“Uncle Yorke.” This remark would come from a 
new boy, not one of his regular audience. “Uncle 
Yorke, was it really true about all those dollars ?” 

“Was it true? Is dat so? Who dis sputin ov me ? Go 
on way from here boys — sassin’ o’ me? Cumin ’thout 
invertations an’ axin all manner o’ questions ’bout what 
yer nuvver seed in yer lives, no; aint nuvver gwin ter see 
— an’ den axin me: ‘Is dat so? Is dat so?’ Olar out, 
uvery Muther’ son o’ yer. Sputin my werd ! Olar out!” 

“But Uncle Yorke,” maybe one will remonstrate, “I 
come to buy some fish — ” 

“Yer don’t git no feesh o’ mine — Olar out I — Mixin 
up feesh an impedence — an’ sputin my werd. Me, who 
nussed Ginrul Washingtum, an’ waited on Mars’ Lafeart 
fore you was born. Olar out I I tells you !” 

They “clar out,” but to return, like a swarm of flies, 
whenever they are “a mind to.” Uncle Yorke, to do 
him justice, never bears any malice. 


UNCLE YORKERS AGE. 


must be mighty old, Uncle Yorke,” says 
1 Tom, “to remember so much.’’ 

“I is, chile, I is,” with a sigh. “Nobody 
dunno how ole I is; fur back as I kin go mysef, I don’t 
recollecks dat. But I was born twixt de dark an’ de 
dawn ov a Sunday morn in’, an’ ef enybody was ter have 
deir own choosings dey couldn’t pick a better time dan 
dat.” 

“Why, Uncle Yorke?” 

“Kase fokes born at dat time sees an’ knows more dan 
mose fokes. Dey beers things dat udder fokes don’t 
heer, an’ dey sees things dat udder fokes can’t see,” in a 
tone calculated to strike awe to the stoutest heart. 

“Do you reckon you are much as a hundred ?” and 
the little boy hesitates, between his anxiety to know, and 
the consciousness of having been taught how impolite 
it is to ask anyone’s age ; and he glances towards the 
door to see if it be open for a speedy escape, in the event 
of offending Uncle Yorke. 

To his delight, Uncle Yorke regards it as a compli- 
ment. 

“Hundred! Yes chile, more’n dat. Two or three 
hundred at de iowes’ ” says the old man, and with a 
pardonable pride at his longevity, he adds: “You didn’t 
nuver know nobody dat ole ? Did you ?” 

“No, I never knew anybody that old, but there was a 
man once much as seven hundred — ” 

“Dat was sum o’ dem fokes in de Bible. I aint put- 
tin myself long o’ dem — ” 

32 


Uvcle Yorkers Age. 


23 


‘‘Not in the Bible neither, Uacle Yorke. There's a 
man in St. John's churchyard seven hundred and seven- 
teen years old. Just think of it ! I saw it on the tomb- 
stone myself." 

“Now, chile, I knows what yer talkin' 'bout. Dat 
young man warnt more dan seventeen year ole; I knowed 
him. An' I knowed too, dat little wicket chile what 
pecked dat seven, wid a carpenter's chisel whare he stole, 
an' I seed de carpenter after him an' heerd him holler 
out : T aint got yer ole chisel,' an' de chisel flung itsef 
outen his sleeve when de words fell outen his mouf. 
An' I knows too," says the old man impressively, “dat 
years afterwards dat dat chil was streek by lightnin’, 
an' fokes said when dey sont out de invertashuns ter de 
berryin, twere a accident. But I knowed twere a jedgment 
fer sturbin de peace ob de grabeyard, kase taint healthy 
to fool ^long dead fokes." 

“Well, they oughtnt to leave it there then," says the 
little boy, “Ought they ?" 

“Well, it’s this a- way. His fokes is all dead an' gone, 
an' everybody knowed he warnt no seven hundred, an' 
never spected dat 'twas gwine ter 'ceive nobody. An 
dats de way things gits so musseled up in dis world. De 
fokes what knows don't trouble deyseves, an' bime-by, 
here come long somebody dat don't know nuthin' 'tall 
'bout it — an' got de man's own graben tombstone to go 
by, an' sets down de biggest kind o' lies for facks, an' 
dats de truf." 

Resuming after a meditative pause : “An' dey says, 
too, dat de lightnin* don't strek twict in de same place. 
Dat when de lightnin' done strek you once, dat yer kin 


t 


24 


Virginia, 


make yer mine easy fer de res ob yer days — taint gwine 
ter strek you no more. An’ dat aint so needer, kase 
everybody in dis town know dat dat house ’pon top ob 
dat same Church Hill done been streckt three or fo’ 
times, an’ twict in one day, too. An’ I knows, too,” sa% s 
the old man in a suppressed voice, but with an air of 
decision, ‘‘dat dere’ sumthin’ wrong ’bout dat house, an’ 
I calls it flyin’ in de face ob Providence ter go on 
buildin’ dat house ober an’ ober agin, back in de same 
place. Dere’s sumthin’ under dat hill whar wants ter 
see de light ob day shine ’pon it — ” 

“What, Uncle Yorke? What? cries the little boy, 
with his eyes stretched wide. 

“I dunno, chile, I dunno. I done studied an’ stu- 
died — up an’ down — an’ I can’t pint to no tickler 
nnthin’. But shore’s you born, dere’s sumthin’ ! Dat 
Church Hill don’t git long no ways somehow, an’ yit no 
reason. An’ it’s a good lookin’ place ter look at — 

“An’ dere’s lots an’ lots o’ accidence whar happens ’pon 
dat hill, dat don’t happen nowhars else; an’ dey ain’t 
nuver ’counted fur — an’ nuver will be — in dis world,” 
says the old man so solemnly, that the little boy’s teeth 
chatter. 

After a pause of some duration. Uncle Yorke asks, as 
a sort of feeler : 

“Did you uver heer ob a man by de name ob Capten 
Kidd?” 

“Captain Kidd, the Pirate — Oh, Uncle Yorke! Do 
you know anything of him ?” 

“I knows a heep, an’ I done heerd ’bout him many 
an’ many a time, an’ I ain’t so shore dat I ain’t heerd 


[Inch Yorkers Age. 25 

him mjsef paddlin’ ’bout up and down dis same Jeames 
ribber.” 

“Ob, Uncle Yorke!”, in a tone of rapture; for Cap- 
tain Kidd and his buried treasures, and his piratical ex- 
ploits, were more charming than fairy tales to the enter- 
prising youngsters of Tom’s day. 

“You see,” says Uncle Yorke, “dat Oapten Kidd were 
a sailer, but he were out ob a job — an’ he had a long 
head, dat man had ; an’ was jess waitin’ ob a chanct. 
An’ he went ’bout tellin’ everybody what he’d do ef he 
jess could git a holt ob a pirate — an’ dey was waitin’ 
fer sumbody dat warnt feard o’ pirates, an’ Oapten Kidd 
seemed de man ter strek dat nail ’pon de top ob its head . 
An’ de guvment went ter wuk an’ fixed a ship fer de 
Oapten, an’ lo! an’beholes! He was de fiercess pirate 
dat de world ebber seed. An’ dey had more trubbles 
’bout dat one man dan de gang ob de res’, an’ sumtimes 
I makes up my mine dat dat lightnin’ an’ dat pirate’s 
mixed up tergedder, but I aint nuvver settled it ter my 
own satersfaction.” 

“Do you really think,” cries Tom eagerly, “that Cap- 
tain Kidd’s got anything buried under that Hill ?” 

“I dunuo. Hits a mysterus doing one ways an’ de 
udder, an’ it don’t become me jess ter say one ways or 
turrer, but ’twould set rite straight wid de ways dat dey 
say dat dat man did — buryin’ ob his gole ad’ silber in 
grabeyards. You done heerd de song ’bout him, aint 
you ? I sings it sumtimes — ” 

“Sing it now. Oh ! Uncle Yorke, please.” 

And after due persuasion Uncle Yorke sings a thrill- 
ing song of that famous adventurer, who kept the world 


26 


Virginia. 


stirred up during his lifetime, and the earth stirred up 
in various spots for long years afterwards; as one and 
another hoped to enrich himself from those hidden 
stores, and the attempts have not died out yet : 

“ ‘My name was Captain Kidd, as I sailed, as I sailed. 

And my name was Captain Kidd, as I sailed. 

And my name was Captain Kidd, 

And so wickedly I did ; 

God’s laws I did forbid, 

As I sailed. 

“I’d a Bible in my hand, as I sailed, as I sailed. 

I’d a Bible in my hand as I sailed. 

I’d a Bible in my hand. 

By my father’s great command ; 

But I sunk it in the sand. 

As I sailed.’ ” 

^‘And,” says the old man, as Tom gazes at him open- 
mouthed : ‘T knows, an’ you knows too, dat he couldn’t 
been wicketer dan to toted a Bible an’ cut up all dem 
shines too.” 

“You said ‘Invitations ?’ Invitations to a funeral? 
What did you mean. Uncle Yorke?” 

“Zactly what I dun said, Tnvertashuns.’ ” 

“Why! I never heard of such a thing.” 

“Weary likely you aint, but dat don’t pruv nuthin’.” 

“But to a funeral? Invitations! Uncle Yorke?” 

“Yes, Mr. Solomon. You sees in dem times dey had 
more darkeys dan dey knowed what ter do wid, jess 
steppin’ all over dem, and dey sont dem ’pon all kinds er 
erruns. An’ so when eny de fokes died dey tuk up two 
thre’ darkeys, an’ two thre’ silver sav vers an’ tied a piece 
er crape ’pon de savver, an’ a white ban on de darkey’s 


Uncle YorJce^s Age. 


27 


hat an’ pon his arm, an’ sont dem round ter de fokes dey 
knowed same’s you do fer a party, wid de invertashuns 
on de savver, an’ you knowed den who’d cum. Dat was 
de fust way dat I recollecks. 

“After awhile dey jess sont out one all round, I ’spose 
dey had deir resuns fer ’conomy. Den, by an’ by, sum 
o’ dese here harf strainers dat didn’t have no darkey ter 
spar, sont werd ter de papers — dey said, ter make sure dat 
deir frien’s in de country cud git de werd an’ not be 
axin ’bout yer ded rullashuns, when you was all of a 
broad grin, an’ make yer feel kinder mixed. 

“An’ den, by an’ by, it cum ’bout, dat everyboddy gun’ 
ter do dat same, kase yer know fokes, dey is mighty apt 
ter do like everyboddy else does, dough dey thought at de 
fust dat it were awful ‘po’-white-fokesy, ter be sen din’ 
dem ter be printed in de papei’s, jess ter save trubble. 

“I knows one thing — dat I aint nuvver done nuthin 
kase noboddy else dun it, an I aint nuvver gwin ter.” 

“What are you going to do when you die. Uncle 
Yorke?” 

“I don’t ’zactly know yit. I aint figgered it out, but 
I sholy aint gwine ter res easy ef dat Bunty cum, settin’ 
hissef up wid his ars, kase ef my eyes warnt good shet I 
knows dat I’d see him an’ be dissatersfied. Dere’s sum 
fokes dat I warnts ter cum an’ sum I dussent, I’m gwine 
dough ter be fixed straight when de time cums,” he says 
cheerfully. 

“But yer better run ’long home now an’ kerry dem feesh 
ter Mis’ Oar’line, an’ tell her dat dey’s jess cotched — 
dough dem words is a waste o’ bref, kase Mis’ Oar’line 
know dat I kin be ’pended on ’bout feesh.” 


28 


Virginia, 


The words about Oaptaiu Kidd fire Tom’s imaginatiou 
and confiding his secret to his mates, Church Hill on 
numerous Saturdays thereafter, bears witness to energetic 
searchings for whatever Captain Kidd may have forgot- 
ten himself, until it is dug so full of holes as to en- 
danger life. And the police, who render enterprising 
boy-life a burden, take upon themselves to interfere. 


UNCLE YORKE’S INDIANS. 


^ ^ I F YOU are so old as that, Uncle Yorke, you could 
1 tell me something about the Indians, couldn’t 
you ?” 

^‘Tell you surnthin’ ? 1 kin tell you everything fitten 

for you ter know. Injuns — Injuns plenty. Seed um 
cum, an’ seed um go. Dey used fer ter trade beaver 
skinses an’ sich, up an’ down de ribber, dis same Jeames 
ribber, up an’ down, in deir canoes. Pamunkys an’ 
Notterways was de mos’ ob deir names. Dem tribes 
staid ’bout hyer arfter de mos’ ov de udder tribes had 
dun goned out Wes’. An’ fer awhile dey got long tol- 
lerbly, but bimeby dey got dissattersfied, or de white 
fokes ’round ’bout warn’t sattersfied wid dem — eny 
ways, ’twas powerful strattersfaction sumwhars, an’ dey 
kep cumin’ ter de Guvner ’bout one thing an’ anudder, 
an’ de fokes dey kep’ cumin’ on deir own parts, an’ dey 
would all git drunk, an’ dey wouldn’t dress ter please de 
ladies long de streets, an’ so on. 

‘‘An de Guvner sont ter de Presedent an’ de Presedent 
sont back ter de Guvner, an’ so on. An’ den de Prese- 
dent sont a man dat dey called de Terpreter, an’ anudder 
dat dey called a Gent — but why dey didn’t call him a 
Gentleman at onct, I couldn’t see, kase he looked peart 
’nuff. 

“An’ dey fussed, an’ dey fussed — leastways de Injuns 
didn’t fuss, Injuns don’t fuss — dey hits straight out, 
an’ not always squar needer, but dey hits when dey gits 
reddy, an’ dey looked likxg dey was gitten ready. An’ 


30 


Virginia. 


dey sont werd dat dey had done berried de hatchet, but 
dat dey knowed ’xactly whar ’twas berried. 

“An’ de fokes was gitten’ oneasy, an’ de Injuns 
wouldn’t be qualified. Den de Gruvner sont werd fer 
dem to cum up an’ make up deir mines onct fer all, one 
ways or turrer. 

“An den a passel ov ‘Sichems,’ dey called deirseves, 
sont werd dat dey was cumin’. An’ I hoped to make de 
pruperations fer de ‘Pow-Wow,’ as dey called it, and in 
dat same Mutopolitan Hall, dough ’twas a church den. 

“De pulpit warn’t big nuff, an’ so dey boded round a 
flatform outsides, ferther inter whar de fokes sets, an’ 
dey sot dem all up dar so’s fokes could see an’ heer, as 
’twas all far an’ squar, twixt one an’ turrer. 

“I was dar, an’ heeps uv white fokes dat I knowed — 
an’ knowin’ Injuns as I did, I cornsidered it mighty 
brash ’pon deir parts. But dere dey was, laughin’ an’ 
chattin’, principly ’bout de Injuns, an’ how dey looked 
— but de Injuns — nare one uv dem turned ter de rights 
or de leffs, but kep deir eyes fixed ’pon de Terpreter and 
de Gent. 

“Fust, dey smoked de pipe apiece, as dey said, dough 
twarnt but one solitary pipe ’mongst all dem men, In- 
juns and all, an’ dey parsed it all ’long de line, an’ I 
knows sum fokes ov my ’quaintance whare was dar dat 
day, squinched at it. I won’t call no names, but one ov 
dem fine gentlemans dat wouldn’t eat wid a spun dat his 
wife eat wid, nor wouldn’t drunk outen de same cupm 
wid his ownsum chillun, jess tuk dat pipe dout wipin’ it 
an’ smoked away like de res’. I looked at him in ’sprise, 
an’ I kotched his eye, an’ I tuk de libbuty o’ winkin’, but 


Uncle Yor¥e Indians. 


31 


he nuvver cracked a smile, so I says ter myself, dat dere 
must be sumthin’ specul preshus ’bout dat pipe, an’ I 
tuk a chanst ter look at it ’fore it gwied out, but I didn’t 
see nuthin’ ’bout it ter change ole Mars’ Kuruel’s senti- 
munce. ’Twarnt nuthin’ but a root ob de laurel, cut like 
a burd, an’ a brierwood handle, an’ dat’s all. 

“So I ’specs dar was cunjur in de ’baccer an I pored 
sum dat out, but I nuvver seed nuthin’ straodnary ’bout 
dat, I dun raised better tbousaii’ times myself, but I belt 
my pease. 

“It ’peared dat de Injuns warnt sattersfied ’bout sum 
munny dat dey said dat de Presdunt dun promised dem 
fer deir feeshin’ an’ huntin’ gruns, an’ dey kept de ’ter- 
preter sayin’, ober an’ ober a gin, dat deir good Father in 
Washingtum had dun gin deir brudders more dan he 
dun gin dem, an’ dat it warnt jus’, an’ dat deir Ians was 
good, an’ dere Ians was de bes’, an’ dar dey stuck, an’ 
dey warnt gwin Wes’ dout dey was pade mo’ — an dar dey 
stuck agin. 

“Injuns mighty tiresum. Dey don’t say much, but 
dey kin say it ober an’ ober agin twell you don’ sense de 
werds. Now dis a way dey went on: 

“ ‘Our brudder’s Ians not good Ians. 

“Our Ians good Ians. 

“Our brudder’s Ians not ariguble Ians. 

“Our Ians ariguble Ians. 

“Our brudder’s Ians not paraguble Ians. 

“Our brudder’s Ians not narraguble Ians. 

“Our Ians paraguble Ians. 

“Our Ians narraguble Ians.’ ” 

“What did they mean by that?” 

“I dun no den, an’ I dunno now, but dey was pintedly 


32 


Virginia. 


big werds fer ’scribin dem bottoms on dat Nottaway rib- 
ber whare dar was mo^ sans dan Ians. I knowed 
sumthin’ bout dem Ians mysef, where you can’t rase 
nuthin, not even yersef, ef yer gits stuck, s ides all dem 
quicksans. 

‘*But I let de Injuns talk fer deysevs, an’ as nobody 
axed me nuthin’, I tole needer de truf nor de lies, fer ef 
I knowed anythin, I knowed Injuns. 

^‘An’ as I was tellin’ you how Injuns dus. You know 
how cheers dus? Once in a while you cums crost a 
cheer dat you carn’t do nuthin’ wid. You sets it in one 
place an’ it’ll wuk itsef ter anudder — principally ter- 
wards de dore. An’ yer fotch it back, an’ still it keep 
a projeckin’ back ter de dore. An’ maybe a cheer jess 
like it will stay jess whar yer puts it, ain’t yer ?” 

“Yes, certainly, but what’s the reason. Uncle Yorke ?” 

“Keesun nuff chile, but I can’t tell you. I makes my 
own cheers mysef, an’ I shore dat dar aint no witch werk 
in dem oak-backed an’ split-bottomed cheers dat I makes 
mysef, an’ tell yer Ma, when yer gits home, dat I’d like 
ser sell her sum, ’bout harf-dozzen, ’fore Orismus. Rec- 
ollecks, now. Mars’ Tom ?” 

“Oh, I will, sure.” 

“Well, as I was sayin’, one ov dem possest cheers, 
possest ov a rovin’ speret, was sot, unbeknownst, ’pon de 
flatform, an’ one ov dem young bucks was asottin ’pon 
it. An’ he warn’t used to- cheers noways, an’ when he’d 
gin a little jerk; an’ he was de onlist one dat didn’t look 
like a brown statchur. I dunno what was de matter 
wid him, dout he warn’t pleased dat all dem young la- 
dies was lookin’ at him an’ larfin’ fit ter kill deirseves. 


Uncle Yorkers Indians. 


33 


An’ ef dey had knowed all I knowed, dey’d a knowed 
dat ’twarnt de safes’ thing in de werl ter larf at Injuns! 
An’ Injuns don’t ’low deir squaws, as dey calls deir 
young ladies, ter go nowahrs neer a ‘Pow-Wow.’ Well, 
uvery jerk dat he hitched, de cheer’d muve itsef a little 
fether backwards; an’ bimeby, two ov de legs slipped 
ober de eedge ov de flatform, an’ de two-legged Injun 
an’ de fore-legged cheer fell ober an’ mixed demseves 
up wid de awjunce, an’ you nuvver heer sech a racket — 
what wid de cheers an’ de hollerin’ ov de whitefokes, 
fit ter bust! But nare Injun uver even turned up de 
whites ov his eyes, no mo’ dan ef dey had been a milyun 
ov miles off, an’ nuver even looked as ef dey had heerd 
a soun’. Sumbody picked up de cheer an’ sot it back 
’pon de Stan’, an’ de Injun picked hissef up, an’ walked 
as stiddy roun’ dat flatform, an’ needer terned his eyes 
rights nor leffs, an’ tuk his seat same’s he’d ben at home 
by his lone sef. But arfter he dun sot hissef down 
straight, uvery one ov dem Injuns terned his eye ’pon 
him like a gimlet, an’ uvery one dem said: ‘Ugh.’ 
An’ den terned back ter whar de Terpreter was, like dey 
had nuvver muved. I allers had a respec’ fer dem 
saviges sense, kase dat was a tryin’ time. 

“Dey couldn’t ’gree ’pon de terms ov de munny, arfter 
all de palaveriu, an’ de Gent kep’ sayin’ ter de Terpreter : 

“‘Our Good Father in Washingtum dun say all he 
got ter say, an’ all he gwine ter say, an’ dat offer is 
finul I’ 

“I heered Mars’ Kurnel Kearter say dat he made a 
fine speech, but dem Injuns didn’t seem ter think de 
same, kase dey all got up wid deir hatchets in deir hans, 


34 


Virginia. 


an’ I looked fer ter see dem chop dat man inter little 
bits o’ pieces ’fore my face. I didn’t ’spect no mo’. 
But dey jess say, all at onct: ‘Ugh,’ an’ went on down. 
An’ one oy dem stopped at de do’, I beleeve de same one 
whar rolled over on ter de floor, an’ looked at one o’ dem 
young ladies whar seemed ter be ’joyin’ hersef ober an’ 
above de common, dough when he fastened his eye ’pon 
her, she hished up u v a suddent : 

“ ‘You talk too mush heep.’ 

“An’ when he went out, she were redder dan he was. 

“But dough I belt my href twell dey did git out, I 
didn’t breeve so free as I mought fer a spell o’ days ! 
But dey kep’ on down, an’ I heered dey didn’t stop ter 
take bref twell dey got plum ter Washingtum. Dey 
flxed it up sumhows, an’ dey lef’ dese parts, an’ dough 
sum ov dem nuver did git deir mines made up ter deir 
dyin’ day, an’ dey still stays down on dat Notterway rib- 
ber; but my ole bones got sumthin’ else ter do ’sides 
meddlin’ ’long Injuns an’ mud, fer beaver pelf esses. 
An’ dey don’t cum here no mo’, an’ I’s willin’ nuff 
mysef ter say dat I dun seed de las’ ob de Injuns! 
Kase I ain’t de fust, an’ I ain’t de las’, dat know dat de 
onliest good Injun is a ded Injun. An’ I ain’t gwine 
ter trus’ a ded Injun too fer, kase ef it hadn’t been fer 
dat same feelin’ ov mistrus’, I mought ha’ been a rich 
man by now, an’ ridin’ sumthin’ better dan dat ole saw 
horse out yonder ’pon de ribber banks.” 

“How, Uncle Yorke? What do you mean?” 

“Dat I knows whar’s a place, whar’s a whole passel 
ob Injuns berried wid all blongiu’ ter dem! An’ ef I 
warn’t feared ter go by mysef at nights, an’ feared ter 


Uncle Yorkers Indians. 


35 


true' any dese here trifless darkies by day, I’d go dar an’ 
dig up nuff ter set me up — but ’tain’t no use talkin’ 
Mars’ Tom, I’s feared. An’ you go on home now — an’ 
mabbe, sum day, when I ain’t so busy, I’m gwine ter 
take you ober ter Brekingquarter branch an’ show you 
dem Injun moundses, an’ git you sum Injun arrer-heds — 
dat is, ef yer ma is willin’ an’ say so.” 

“Uncle Yorke,” says Tom, balancing himself on one 
foot, “wasn’t Pocahontas a good Indian?” 

“Ain’t Mis Pocahontas ded ?” 

“Y-e-s.” 

“Well, don’t dat pruv what I say?” 

“Did you know her, when she was living ?” 

“No, I war n’t ’quainted wid her mysef, but I knowed 
sum dat was. But I nuver heered no harm ’bout her, 
an’ ef I had, I would be loth ter say enything disre- 
specterbul ’bout her, kase I’m well ’quainted wid sum 
her kinfokes — an’ Injuns is — Injuns.” 

That night Tom keeps repeating over and over the 
words, “Arigable, paraguble, narraguble,” with every 
variety of emphasis. His father overhears the sounds, 
which do not resemble those of any known language. 

“What are you saying, Tom ?” 

“Something Uncle Yorke told me. Father. What did 
he mean by ariguble, paraguble, narraguble ?” 

“What was he talking about?” 

“About trading with the Nototway Indians for their 
hunting grounds.” 

“As I remember the occasion, I am able to tell you, 
that he meant arable, pasturable, navigable, else I think 
I should be as much in the dark as Uncle Yorke says he is.” 


THE OLD STONE HOUSE. 


^ ^ T HAVE heard/’ says Tom, “that general Washing- 
1 ton was in Eichmond during the war, and slept 
in the old Stone House. But Bustler Williams 
says that he don’t believe it. Did he. Uncle Yorke?” 

“An’ whar else was he ter sleep ?” 

“Bustler says there were plenty of fine houses up on 
Franklin Street for him to have slept in.” 

“Franklin Street ! An’ dat shows how much Bustler 
know. Dat house was de onliest house ’bout here fer 
anybodys ter sleep in, an’ you might gin Ginerul George 
Washingtum credit fer sense nuff not ter sleep on de 
bar’ ground when dar was a house handy, an’ dere warnt 
no Franklin Street, so dar. 

“I hoped build dat house, an’ dat house is a house. 
Like dat in de Bible, dat house built ’pon rock, an’ dat 
house built ob rock, an’ its gwine ter take a powerful 
yearthquake ter shake dat house down. An’ ’fore dey 
filled up dat street, an’ set harf dat house down belowst 
de ground, dat house cas’ a cumfertable shadow, an’ in 
my day it didn’t look like it now do, kase it set right on 
de ribber, an’ dem factries is whar de stables was, an’ be- 
hinst dem was de quarters, an’ dar was big trees all 
’round an’ de biggest run ob water dat ebber flowed — 
dat same Bloody Eun. An’ dem hills shot off de win- 
ter’s wind, an’ dar was game — deer, bars, wile turkeys, 
an’ all sorts of animils — an’ at nights you’d only got ter 
put yer head outen de back winder ter see a curcuses, an’ 

not have ter pay yer larst harf dollar fer ter go in dat 
36 


The Old Sto7ie House. 


37 


tent an’ heer dat clown say things dat I would be ’shamed 
ob mysef ter ’spect fokes ter larf at. 

“An’ as I say, dar was feesh in de ribber an’ game on 
de hills, an’ woods to burn, an’ water ter drink, an’ what 
more could enybody want ? I’d like ter be fixed up as 
well myself, fer de rest ob my life, as Mars’ Jake was. 

“You see, as ’twas dis away: Mars’ Jake was ’spinted 
in luv, an’ like mos’ young fokes he couldn’t bar ter be 
’spinted. But ef he had waited twell he was ole as I is 
ter fall in luv, he wouldnt ’spect nuthin’ but ’spint- 
munts. So he made up his mine ter go out inter der 
wilderness an’ build hissef a monument. An’ he ’suaded 
a Capten ob a boat ter let him bring dem stones ’long 
fer ballast. An’ on dat same steamer was ann udder 
young lady, an’ — ” 

“What was she coming for ?” 

“I dunno, chile, kase she didn’t ha’ nuthin’ else ter do 
I ’spose, an’ yer knows when fokes got nuthin’ else ter 
do dey is always doin’ surnthin’ onexpected. Well, dar 
she was, an’ dar he was, an’ she looked like de ^gal he 
leff behin’ him,’ kase in my ’pinyuns all galls looks like, 
an he fell in luv wid her on de way, an’ dey got married 
soon’s dey got ter Jeamstown. An’ as Mars’ Jake he 
had done make up his mine ter go on out inter der wild- 
erness, an’ when Mars’ Jake’s mine was made up, ’twas 
made up. So he cum on up de ribber as fur’s dis Kich- 
mond, ’dough ’twarnt no Eichmond den, an’ he seed dis 
place, an’ he seed all de pints ob de place, an’ ’stid o’ 
buildin’ de monument ob de granite he tuk a sensible 
vue an’ built dat house, an’ his own fokes lib in it ter 
dis day, an dats a good sign. An’ I got lots a things I 


38 


Virginia, 


kin tell you ’bout dat house; one thing specully — you 
done heerd ’fore dis, dat all ole houses has a ghost be- 
longin’ ter dem, aint you ?” 

“Yes,” in a very dubious voice, though his eyes dance. 

“Well, all dem udder houses got ghosts whar cum in 
de night season, but de ghost whar hants dis house cum 
in de day time, an’ I gwine ter tell you all ’bout it — 
taint nuthin’ ter sheer you, kase he don’t cum arfter no- 
body but de young ladies ob de family.” 

“Tell me then. Mamma don’t like me to hear ghost 
stories, but I aint scared in the day time anywhere.” 

“Well, this here ghost is a good-lookin’ young man 
an’ he cum an’ ring at de dore an’ say: ‘Is de young 
ladies in ? I dun fergit my kerd, but jess say “a 
frien\j.” ’ An’ dough dey see dat young man go in, no- 
body ever seed him eny f uther dan dat dore, ’an nare one 
ob de young ladies dat he call hissef ‘a frien)^’ eber seed 
him in dere lives.” 

“Why, Uncle Yorke ?” 

“Kase he jess dissapeer right dar.” 

“Well, as I were gwine ter tell yer, dat was de onliest 
house fer Mars’ Washingtum ter sleep, an’ manys de 
time has 1 staid outsides dat dore io dat passige and said 
‘Highst ! Sh ! Sh !’ ter keep him frum havin’ his res’ 
bruk. 

“An’ as you knows, dat de war ’gun in Boston, (an’ 
places was f uther way den, dan dey is now), an’ it 
stringed all de way down ter Yorktown, an’ it lasted 
seben year, an’ you knows dat Mars’ Washingtum warnt 
gwine ter set battin’ his eyes fer all dem hundreds ob 
days an nights, when de fokes was proud ’nuff fer him 


The Old Stone House. 


39 


ter sleep much as he pleased. An’ ter say whar he slept 
— an’ fer all dem days an’ nights — how menny days in 
a year, enyways ?” 

“Three hundred and sixty-five and a fourth.” 

“What dat ‘forth’ fer ?” 

“A little girl said it was for the ‘Fourth of July,’ 
but I don’t exactly.” 

“Tell de trufs as yer goes long. Dat settles it. Now 
say, how menny yers dat war las’ ? Seben, yer all knows 
dat. Well, now tell me how menny in seben times dat 
menny ? Kase dem’s a heeps o’ days fer ter be sleepin’ 
heer, dar an’ uvverywhar. An’ as I was sayin whar he 
slept ; I wouldn’t be so brash as ter be layin my han on 
nar place, an’ sayin’ dat he didn’t sleep dar. It makes me 
feel like noddin’ jess ter talk ’bout it. But I kept quiet 
den an’ sed : ‘Sh ! Sh !’ An’ I didn’t do it fer thanks, but 
thanks 1 got, an’ I got menny an’ menny a gole dollar, too. 
An’ I wisht I had dem now. But when I got one, I didn’t 
know dat I was gwine ter git his mate, an’ so’s I didn’t 
ha* no more sense dan ter spend him, ’stid o’ savin’ him 
fer seed. Ef yer foresight was only good as yer hine- 
sight, things would be diffrunt in this werl. 

“Well’s, I were sayin’, Mars’ Jake had two sons an’ 
four darters, an’ when de fust chile was born dey sont 
ober frum his duck, dat’s what he called his sweetheart, 
an’ her name was Hessie Castle (the duke of Hesse 
Cassel). She sont dat chile a gole bole, an’ a lace 
garmink — an,” says the old man, meditatively, “I nuv- 
ver did understan’ ’bout de lace, kase de only lace dat I 
knows ob is shoe lace, as sum fokes calls shoeties, an’ 
what dey wanted ter send dat chile a string, all dat 


40 


Virginia. 


ways — I dunno. But, maybe ’twas luck ob sum sort. 
Taint no use ter contradicks everything dat yer carn’t 
make out. Fokes raised one whars, an’ fokes raised 
udder whars, don’t always ha’ de same sort ob idees ; an’ 
cf dey sont her a string, maybe dey understood it, but I 
dont. Howsumever, I has seed de gole bole wid my 
own eyes.” 

never saw a gold bowl in my life. Uncle Yorke.” 

‘‘Well, ’taint nuthin’ ter be shamed uv, kase dat’s de 
onliest one I uver seed.” 

“Who’s got it now ? I know some of the family, and 
I’d like to see it with my eyes.” 

“I dunno which got it now. Mars’ Samuel gin it ter 
his sister dat merried Mars’ Ginerul Lambert, an’ he 
tuk it wid him in de army, kase it were handier not ter 
brek, dan a gode. An’ I dunno whar ter tell yer ter 
look fer it now. Mis Lambert, she died, an’ her sister, 
what nuver merried, tuk keer ob de chillen; an’ twere 
Mis’ Nancy, dat is de one whar ’cassioned dat ghose 
story.” 

“How, Uncle Yorke?” 

“Well, twas ’fore de war, and she had done sot her 
’fections ’pon a young man. An’ when de war bruk out, 
he an’ his fokes was Tories, an’ Mars’ Jake’s fokes was 
Merikins, an’ dey didn’t want Mis’ Nancy ter keep 
cump’ny wid dis here young man, no, mo’. But Mis 
Nancy couldn’t make up her mine ter gin him up, an» 
had done ’pinted a time fer him ter cum an’ take her 
back ter Inglin or France, or sumwhars dey had kin’ 
fokes. An’ dat was de man dat call hissef ‘A fren.’ 
Some ob de Merikins killed him on de way dar, an’ his 


The Old Stone House. 


41 


8 perit warn’t satersfied dout seein’ Mis’ Nancy. But I 
don’t see why he ain’t sattersfied yit, kase Mis Nancy 
done dead years ago — dout dey went ter diffrunt places.” 

Uncle Yorke has a force of conclusions which might 
have made him famous in another rank and walk of 
life. 

‘•Mars’ Samuel merried Mis’ Lisbcth Walker. Her 
father was drownded afore her muther’s face, an’ her 
muther died dat same night, an’ Colonel Prosser, whar 
was her cousin, tuk her an’ brung her up, an’ she was 
well off. Her uncle lef’ her a lot, kase she named one ob 
de chillen arfter him, an’ he leff de chile sumthin’ — an’ 
here’s anudder thing dat I don’t understan’.” 

“He leff her a beep 0’ salt sum whar s out wes, in Kee- 
nowhar, an’ dey sent a liyer out dar after it, an’ gin him 
some papers ter wrop it up in fer to fetch home, an’ when 
he got dar, he foun’ a whole batch 0’ fokes saltin’ down 
deir hogs wid Mis’ Tandy’s salt. An’ dey wouldn’t gin 
it up, an’ dar was so meny 0’ dem, an’ jess dat one lettle 
man by his lone sef, dat he got ’timidated an’ run off an’ 
drap de papers behine him. An’ when he try ter ’splain 
it, dey make a mighty fuss ’bout it an’ said sumthin’ 
bout ‘Salt an’ Batter-bred.’ But dat didn’t git de salt. 
An’ I dunno what make dem so viragous ’bout dat salt, 
kase salt’s cheep, an’ Mis’ ’Lisbeth always had plenty ob 
salt in de smokehouse. But maybe fokes allers wants 
what b’longs ter dem, little an’ big. I does mysef, an’ 
so I would thank you ter stop by Mis’ Jones’ as you goes 
home, ef it won’t be too much trubble, an’ ax her ter 
sen’ me dat two-in’-thruppence she dun owed me fer a 
fortnite, an’ I’ll be ’bleeged ter yer, Mars’ Tom. 


42 


Virginia, 


“But ’fore you goes, jess wait a minit twell I tell you 
’bout dem Franklin Street houses, ’fore Bustler git you 
all confuged wid his notions. 

“De fust house built ’pon dat Franklin Street was 
built by Mars’ Rutherfod. He tuk a f angle, dat down 
on de ribber was onhealthy an’ so he sot his house ’pon 
top ob de hill. He was gwine ter fix it jess like de res’; 
lay it out in grounds, an’ terrises ter der water’s eedge 
wid flowers an so on, but ’bout dat time here come Mars, 
Willyum Byrd (an’ he was a burd ef dar uver was one.) 
He warnt nuvver satersfied no ways udder fokes did, but 
dey mus do his way, an’ his way warnt nobody else’s 
ways. He ’sisted ’pon layin’ out de whole place diffruut 
frum de way dat dey ’tended ter fust, an’ arfter he done 
started den he tuk a freesh idee an’ said dat Richmond 
was like Rome, an’ built ’pon Seben Hills, an’ ef dey 
would listen ter his racket dat Richmond would las 
long’s de world gwine ter las. An’ dough dar warnt no 
seben hills, he cut one in two an’ make seben — an’ dats 
jess de way Mars’ Willyum Byrd done all his life. 

“He laid out-dem streets an’ cut off Mars’ Jake’s frunt 
porch an’ ’suaded him dat ’twould be fer de good ob de 
cumminity. He jess spiled de house an’ I aint seed it 
do eny body eny good, but jess made dem mo’ an’ mo’ 
dissattersfied all ’long. 

“Does you know de names ob dem hills now ?” 

Tom knows Church Hill and Gamble’s and Shockoe, 
but his information runs aground at the fourth. 

“Dat’s de way Richmond was built — kase de seben hills 
was dar ter build ’pon, an’ now dey’s fillin’ up dem hills, 
an’ de very fokes demseves dunno de names. Now I’m 


The Old Stone House. 


43 


gwinter tell you, an’ I want yer ter keep dem hills in 
mine, kase dem hills was de salwation oh dis place onct, 
but dats needer here nor dar — I don’t spect Mis’ Car- 
line want you to heer ’bout dat. 

‘‘Bar’s de three you done said, an. Council Chamber’s, 
an’ Capitol, an’ Navy is six. Now whars de udder? 
You ought ter know, kase you goes fightin’ dar pritty 
neerly every Satterday ob yer life ?” 

“Oh yes, French Garden.” 

“Bat’s de hill, French Garden. An’ how you an’ dem 
Butcher Cats come out last Satterday?” 

“We didn’t neither beat, because the police came on us 
just about the time we commenced, and we had to scatter 
like a covey of quail, but the brickbats are all piled up 
ready for the next chance,” says Tom laughing. 

(For Richmond, then and always, has been divided off 
into districts, in which stranger boys dare not enter with 
impunity, even though his home be only on the next square. 
Many an unaccounted for and belated errand is owing 
to that fact, as well as the fact that no boy is willing to 
allow that he is afraid of anything in the day time ; al- 
though he is, all the same. And the feud between the 
Butcher Cats and the Hill Cats raged for years, and may 
still rage for aught I know to the contrary, unless in 
filling up the hills they also briged over the differences.) 

‘"Well, Mars’ Willy um divided dat place inter dem 
squars, an’ he ’sisted ’pon de Capitol Square, an’ ter make 
Richmond look like Rome, dough nobody warnt keerin’ 
ter look like no Rome. But Mars’ Byrd was obstinate 
an’ finully had his way, an’ when he had his way ’bout 
dat, he mus start up nudder skeem. 


44 


Virginia. 


“Die was ter divide de Korf from de Souf, an he went 
an’ drewed a line betwix dem, an’ dat line what he 
drewed done ’cassioned mo’ ’spntes an’ trobble dan eny 
line dat de world uyver seed befo’, an’ de trabbles aint 
ended yit. 

“Mars’ Byrd say dat all dese fokes one side ob dat line 
was one kine ov fokes, an’ all de fokes de udder side ov 
de line was n udder kine of fokes, dough I knowed dey 
was all close kin. Yit fer dat very reason dey gits deir 
dander up an’ gits madder an’ madder, kase one brudder 
know he aint no better nor worser dan de udder brud- 
der. But when Mars’ Willyum Byrd ’gun ter say dat he 
looked 'pon Yankees as harf strainers, dey got up an’ 
said dat dey was bedder dan de fokes Souf, kase dey 
cumed here ter wushup ter please demselves, an’ (dough 
I has been ’mongst dem an’ didn’t see so mighty much 
o’ wusshupin’ nowhars), dey went on ter make out dat 
de ship whar fetched dem ober was de Ship o’ Zion itsef 
an’ dat Mars’ Byrd’s fokes jess cumed ober fer a frolic. 

“An’ he sed dat dey knowed dat wam’t so, when dey 
sed so, dat his fokes cumed ober here wid de muteruls 
in deir bans, so’s to speak, ter buil’ de churches, an’ dat 
dey, soon’s dey got here, built dem de fust thing. An’ 
ef dey warn ted ter make surer, dat dey could cum an’ 
dig out de cornder stuns. Dough he jess dared um ter 
try it. He sed dat dey didn’t talk so much ’bout 
‘Wusshup,’ an’ dat ef dey wusshupped ter please deir- 
seves, dat burnin’ holes in Quaker’s tongues an’ cuttin’ 
off deir noses an’ yers was ‘wusshup,’ dat dat sort uv 
wnsshup didn’t please him. 

“An’ dat he was gwine ter draw de line twiit dem, 


The Old Stume Himie. 


^5 


isc dgy didn't T:hfn V de same, an’ dev diin't talV de 
jh dat 'wna de truf)» an' in mj mine dar’i a Jedg^- 
men:: 'pon dem takes fenrer, ter go on talkin' tkm' 
•ifiir noaea. kaae dey cut <:af 50 mennj dan Qnaker^s 
noees an*^ monfa. dongk I ain’t axed nobody ter 'gree wid 
me. An' be aed dac dey didn’t look de aazne. an' dac dey 
•iidn't do de same. An’ be fimck ter dac line, an' called 
aTi-Cdem ob« das dde, Yankees, an’ ail 'pon dia side 
F. F- Yees. An’ den be ae«i das dey w-m all a bard- 
beded an' a bard-barted set (f wiilina. and be was glad 
das dey was nTinHy jupporased. An' Mark Wiiiyam 
^rd ts- GET go talking ’bout hard beds, was de pot 
•tailin' de kasde black. Bat be tirewed dat line, an' dat 
trabble » briliir’ op terday, an' ct natbin’ in de werl 
bat knee Mark WiDyaiii Byrd cooldn’t sray as borne in 
peaces nor nowbars eiee;. an' be had a good home ter stay 
toe — West Rover or Rest Ober, I danno ▼bicb. bat it 
lie too dost ta* de water’s eedge fer me^ an* ain’t got no 
frant poreh.’^ 

•^Did ubev brin;! tbe bricks in tbar band a, sare 
enoagn?*^* 

not * 3 actly in dor bans, so’s ter speak, bat dey 
6 jGcb am on de vesseL an' soon’s dey got de grabeyards 
axed ap dey boilt dem. cbarcbes. An* yoa knows 
way 

“Kase ter sober ap dem. tokes as de gate, an* make 
dem recoilecks wbas dey was coinin’ ter as de lak, an* 
not go a-fritaertn” an’' a-Grttain* ap de iles like dey does 
in sum dem ap-^rars town ckarebes nowadays. ' 

“ V'oas is an ap-scars cbarck 


46 


Virginia. 


“What youalls calls gallries. I sposen dat dey was 
fust fixed ter set de gals in, but dese here gals dun got 
out de traces.” 

“Was Patrick Henry in the gallery when he made his 
famous speech over at St. John’s, Uncle Yorke ? And 
did you know him?” 

“Mighty well, mighty well. But what ’tickler speech 
dat you talking ’bout, kase dat man were mightily giben 
ober ter speeches ?” 

“That one that ends by saying : ‘Give me liberty or 
give me death,’ answers Tom, spreading out his arms 
dramatically.” 

“ ‘Gimme libuty er gimme deth.’ Dat soun’ jess like 
him. I knowed him when he ust ter go ’bout fiddlin’ 
’fore he got de notion ov talkin’ so big. But dat soun’ 
perzactly like him, kase he were allers a gret han’ at 
sayin’ ‘gimme.’ Whenst he fust started, he warn’t so 
overly bundled up wid dis here werl’s goods, an’ he got 
inter de habit er sayin’ ‘Gimme.’ Arfter while he foun’ 
out dat he could use de biggest sort er werds ter con- 
foun de intellecks, an’ he drap de fiddle an’ tuk ter law- 
yerin’. Dat was a smart trick ’pon his part, kase com- 
mon fokes allers holes wid sumthin’ dat dey carn’t 
noways make no sense ov, kase dey thinks dat dey carn’t 
go gin’ what dey don’t understan’. Dat’s de truf. 
Well, he tuk ter lawyerin’, as I dun sed, an’ yer knows, 
or yer suttenly gwine ter know ’fore yer dies, dat all a 
lawyer say, pritty much, is : ‘Gimme dis, gimme dat.’ 
An’ arfter while der warn’t so much more fer de fokes 


The Old Stone House. 


47 


ter give; den he say: ‘Gimme deth/ kase he dun 
finished up his time.” 

“Go on home now, Mars’ Tom, an’ don’t yer forgit 
’bout dat two-an’-thruppence.” 


48 


Virginia, 


GENEALOGY. 

We speak this now below our breaths, 
There never were but two F. F’s : 

And one was Adam's, one was Noe's, 
Of whom true Histories tell ; 

And some of them, the story goes, 

Did not behave so mighty well. 


UNCLE YORKERS GENEALOGIES. 


^ ^ I^AT Mount Wernum warn’t no mount a tall, an’ 
I were ’sprised fer ter heer Mars’ Washingtum 
say so, ’specially arfter makin’ dat ’sertion dat 
he nuver tole a lie in his born days, an’ I knows dat I’d 
be feared ter ’sprees mysef dat way ; but white f okes is 
curus, fer dere’s mo’ places up an’ down dis same Jeames 
ribber, dat’s got names wid not as much sense as ter 
shake a stick at Fer instunce, ‘Vude low,’ an’ ’taint 
low tall, but de highest place ’pon de ribber banks, an’ 
dar’s Chip-oaks, an’ dough dey kin have ’s many chips 
as dey chooses ter split up, dey jess in a pine furrest. 
An’ dar’s White Marsh, an’ I knows dat all de marshes 
in de world got nuthin’ but black mud, or twouldn’t be 
a marsh, an’ dar’s plenty mo’.” 

“How do you know so much, Uncle Yorke?” 

“Kase arfter de war were squinched. Mars’ Washing- 
tum didn’t need no more body-guard, an’ I had ter go 
ter wuk, an’ I traded up an’ down dis same ribber, an’ I 
knowed how ter keep my ears an’ eyes open, an’ my 
mouf shet, an’ I seed nights an’ sights, an’ ef fokes was 
ter cum an’ ax me de pints, I could ’splain menny an’ 
menny a thing in ways dat dey wouldn’t be lookin’ fer, 
an’ right here’s one ob dem. 

“Dey used ter send fokes ober frum de ole country in 
packs ob three — brudders — when dey could (’cept dem 
Wises, an’ dey cummed ober in packs ob seben, an’ deir 
name was legion, an’ I don’t say no mor’ out o’ respec’ 
ter Mars’ Wise). But you sees, when one brudder got 

4 


50 


Virginia. 


loss, dat de two could hunt him up ; or ef one got hurt 
de two could take keer oh him, an’ nuss him. Dem was 
diffrunt times frum dese, an’ had ter be ’ranged fer dif- 
frunt, an’ ’twarnt no mo’ use ter brag ’bout your way 
bein’ de bes’, dan ’twould be ’jectin’ ter a fly’s eyes bein’ 
’pon top ov his head, an’ seeiu’ you ’fore you sees yersef. 
An’ dat ’rangment wuked all right — sept fer dem Bollin 
brudders, an’ dey didn’t git long on de way ober, an’ de 
Oapten o’ de vessel what fotch dem ober had a hard 
time ter keep peace, but dey didn’t want ter be fro wed 
overbode, an’ called Mutiny, but jess soon as dey stept 
deir foot ’pon de shore — dey fit — an’ den dey ’greed ter 
seprit, an’ dat was de fust time dat dey uver ’greed ’pon 
one subjeck. An’ dey went diffrunt ways, one up, one 
down, an’ one round. 

‘^Dar was sumthin’ dat dey an’ de res’ ob de fokes 
made a gret ’miration ’bout, dat dey called ‘Libbuty o’ 
Conscus,’ dat is, dat fokes kin do what dey please, jess 
so dey ain’t cotched up wid. An’ so dey could spell jess 
like dey pleased. Not like nowadays, when ef yer wants 
ter go in sciety, you got to spell like everybody else, 
sames yer got ter dress like everybody else. Den dey all 
talked like dey choose, too, an’ a fust family ob Ver- 
ginia, talk like he choose ter dis day. An’ dat’s all right, 
an’ so dese here brudders, dey all signed deir names, an’ 
spelt dem all diffrunt — I carn’t spell none ob dem — but 
dey made a pint ter spell dem names — de same name — 
fur part as possible; an’ ter stay fur’s apart, an’ dey 
didn’t want nobody ter know dat dey was kin. An’ you 
ax one ob dem, when he cum ter town : ‘Is you ’quainted 
wid’ sum Bollin you know, an’ dey say right up: ‘No, 


Uncle Yorkers Genealogies. 51 

an’ we don’t spell our names same way.’ But you cum 
an’ ax me. 

An’ dar’s ole Mars’ Nathan Enruffty (Enroughty) dey 
says now, dat dat poor ole gentleman, what nuver did 
nuthin’ ter disgrace his name, was name Darby. 
Dat Enruffty spell Darby. I carn’t spell Enruffty 
needer. Needer Enroughty, needer Darby. But ole 
Mars’ Nathan Enruffty warn’t named no Darby. He 
had a son Nathan, an’ a cousin Nathan, an’ dey all lived 
in dis same county ob Hannaracker, an’ near by one 
anudder, an’ when you was speakin’ ’bout Nathan En- 
ruffty, dey say: ‘Does you mean ole Nathan, young 
Nathan, or middle age Nathan ?’ An’ you’d say : ‘I means 
ole Nathan Darby,’ kase he cumed friim Inglan, an’ 
dey called all dis here country New Inglan den, dough 
dey ’sputes ’bout it now. An’ he cum frum a place 
called ‘Darby’ ober dere, an’ so he called his place ober 
here ‘Darby’, ter make it seem like home. An’ Mars’ 
Nathan was proud ter be called Darby, kase I beers dat 
in dat ole country, dat dey calls onliest de biggest fokes 
by de name ob de land, an’ ole Mars’ Nathan was hu- 
man, an’ liked ter feel biggity. But ole Mars’ Nathan 
would be de fust ter row, ef he knowed dat dey was 
puttin’ slights on his name. An’ now dey’s got ter 
bleevin’ dat Enruffty spell Darby, an’ Darby spell En- 
ruffty. Darby don’t spell Enruffty no mo’ dan Kich- 
mond spell Rome. I knowed Mars’ Nathan, same’s I 
knowed mysef. 

“An’ dar was all dem Harrisons. Dey scattered dem- 
seves up an’ down dis same ribber, an’ dey was all named 
Randolph. An’ de one whar lived at Clifton, called 


52 


Virginia, 


hissef Clifton Eannie, an’ de one dat lived at Brandon, 
called hissef Brandon Kannie, an’ de one whar lived 
sumwhars else, called hissef Sumwhars-else Rannie. So 
lots o’ fokes long dat ribber, thinks dat deir names Ran- 
nie ter dis day, an’ ain’t nuver heerd nothin’ ’bout no 
Harrison. 

“An’ den I knowed three more dem brudders; ole 
Mars’ Nickless, an’ dey sot deirseves ’pon a place high 
up de ribber, an’ it’s sot round ’bout wid hills, an’ de 
ribber crosses an’ twisses, an’ anudder ribber crosses an’ 
twisses crost dat water, an’ de waters cuts dem pritty 
much off frum de res’ ob de werl, twell dey done got 
ter thinking demseves like Noah; dat dey is de onliest 
family in de werl, an’ dey thinks so ter dis day! Dough 
you know, an’ I know, dat dar’s squintillions ob fokes in 
dis yearth dat ain’t nuvver herd uv dem! 

“Dar’s dem Powelleses ! Dey cumed ober in droves ! 
An’ all de men was named Cuthbert, an’ dey called it 
‘Cud’ fer short. An’ de rest was named Lou Ellen, an’ 
Lou Ellen do seem a rediclus name fer a man ; an’ de 
yonng ladies whar warn’t named Lou, was name Ellen. 
(Dar’s a likely chamber made at dat Bell’s Tavern name 
Lou Ellen, but dat’s needer beer nor dar.) 

“An’ as I dun sed, white fokes is curus. Dey didn’t 
cum frum Inglan, dey sed. Dey cumed frum a place 
called Whales, an’ dey was big fokes, an’ dey sed dat one 
of deir father was named Bligurd. ‘Bligurd,’ an’ don’t 
dat ha’ a mighty queer sound ter you ? It sound mighty 
like sum yether name ter me ! Or maybe I dun make a 
mistake bout dat. Maybe dey cumed kase he were called 
Bligurd. I ain’t sho, but darkey as I is, ef enybody 


Uncle Yorkers Genealogies. 


53 


was ter call me Bligurd Fd knock him down, fer sho’ ! 

“Well, Jeames ribber was too scrougy fer dem, an’ so 
dey went f ether, ter find anuther bigger ribber, an’ dey 
foun’ it. But dey went so fur frum mose fokes, dat 
de mose ov dem was massacreed by de Injuns ! But dar 
was plenty leff, fer dey didn’t make nutbin’ o’ havin’ 
eighteen, or nineteen, or twenty chillen. An’ de chillen 
merried all bouts uvrywhar, an’ now yer karn’t fling a 
rock nowbars ’bout here, ’dout you bits one ob dem, or 
sum deir kin. 

“An’ dar was dem three Cabelses brudders,” and the 
old man sighs. 

“Where did they come from?” 

“I dunno whar dey cumed from, but dey ought ter 
stop an’ ax deyseves whar dey’s gwine ter! Kase, ef you 
sees are one o’ dem Cabelses, an’ dar’s any mischeef, you 
may be sho, dat he is in de middle ov it. But ef dar 
uver was a good lookin’ set ov fokes, it’s dem same 
Cabelses. 

“What I recollecs, I recollecs 1 An’ what I knows’, I 
knows ! An’ what I says, I says I An’ ef you wants 
ter know, you cum an’ ax me ! 

“An’ now it’s time fer you ter run ’long home. Mars’ 
Tom, kase I got sumthin’ else ter do, an’ ef yer stays too 
late. Mis’ Carline won’t let you cum fer de feesh next 
time, but sen’ dat wooly-heded Isham — an’ Isham an’ 
me don’t git ’long — him wid his sass, an’ me what was 
raised ’spectable. 

“But nex’ Sattday evenin ’ you cums, you fetch me a 
piece o’ yer ma’s wheat bred, kase I’m gwine ter have a 
cat-feesh stew.” 


54 Virginia. 

Which conyeyg an inyitation to Tom to share that 
delectable dish. 

“I made up a piece er potry ’bout dese here F. Fs. 
mysef,” says Uncle Yorke, “an’ de onliest one dat I uyer 
did, but yer Pa sed, when I ’cited ter him, dat dare was 
’nuff in it fer eny man’s lifetime.” 

“Tell me?” 

“An’ whar due all dem F. Fs. lib, 

Ob whom I hab off en heerd ? 

Dey libs up in deir fambly trees, 

Don’t yer know dey all part Byrd ?” 

“I made all dat outen my own hed, ’cept dat werd 
‘whom,’ Miss Sallie Cheyallier tell me dat, kase I ain’t 
nuyyer sed ‘whom,’ ’fore ner sense, in my born days.” 

“Don’t you know anything more about anybody ?” 

“I knows a beep, but by an’ large, dey pritty much de 
same sort o’ fokes.” 


UNCLE YORKERS GOVERNORS. 


O NE evening they have rather a short seance. They 
find him busily sorting out fish, arranging them 
carefully on strings, all of a certain size together, 
and all of the best on one bunch ; and to all of their re- 
marks he lends only a preoccupied attention. 

At last he holds up a special bunch as the finished 
result of his labors. 

‘‘Now aint dem beauties ? Bern’s fer de Guvner.” 
“Governor ? Why, Uncle Yorke, you’ve sold fish to 
the Governor before — ” 

“Yes, I has,” with a consciousness of attaining the 
highest perferment in the fish line. “I has, I has sold 
feesh and flung in extras, to pritty nearly uvvery Guv- 
ner dat uver presided in dat manshun. But dese here’s 
p’tickler feesh, all de same. Kase dese here’s de fust 
time dat I has had a chanst at dis new Guvner, an’ I is 
allers overly an’ ’bove p’tickler at de fust time. Kase 
wid sum people dere aint gwine ter be no next time — ef 
you ’spints dem de fust go. 

“Now, yer notices : de fust time you goes anywhars 
yer wars yer bes’ close, an’ it don’t make no diffrunce 
what yer wars arf terwards : kase dey done formed deir 
’pinyuns ’pon de fust look dey takes at yer. Ef yer wars 
de wust — why, I don’t keer how fine yer dresses arfter- 
wards, dey allers says to deirsevs, ef dey don’t say out 
loud : ‘I wish dat yer had seed him de fust time I seed 
him.’ An’ yer knows dat’s so yersef ?” 

55 


56 Virginia. 

“That surely is so, although I hadn^t thought of it be- 
fore.” 

“Well, I has ter spen’ a good deal ov my time by my 
lonesum sef, settin’ dar ’pon dat ribber bank feeshin^ 
an’ I lays out ter make de mos’ ov it. Now dere’s one 
chile in dis here town named Mayan n, an’ de fust time I 
seed dat chile, I were tole dat her name was ’ Lizbuth ; 
an’ dough I dun been tole more’n a hundred times sense 
dat, dat her name’s Mayann, I calls dat little gal ’Lisbuth 
ter dis day, ter mysef, ef I don’t call it out loud, an’ it 
’peers ter me dat dat’s dat little gal’s name ” 

“What does this new Governor look like, Uncle 
Yorke?” 

“I aint nuvver seed him yet, dough I has allers made 
de ’quaintance ov de Guvners at deir back door, fust an’ 
las’, an’ talked polyticks an’ polytax wid dem. An’ 
dough ’twouldn’t do fer a po’ darkey like me ter be givin’ 
no advice ter no Guvner — still — I has offen tole dem how 
de yuther Guvners did ’pon sech an’ sech ’cassions, an’ 
dat, in itsef, is a good sort ov lessun. Kase ef yer knows 
how one did so an’ so, an’ it didn’t suit or it did suit ; 
why yer kin makes up yer mine ter do, or not ter do dat 
same. An’ I makes, no dout, in my own mines, dat I 
has had a lettle finger in de ’fyars ov de Nation, unbe- 
knownst ter mos’. 

“Uv de Guvners, I has had a high ’pinyun o’ sum — 
an’ mos’. But dis here one’s new, an’ jess noggerated — 
an’ what sorter, I got ter think o’ him is a ventur, but 
ef he takes ’pon hissef ter think ’bout me, he’s gwine ter 
praise dem feesh. I b’lives dat sum dem feesh jess 
saves deirseves frum one generashun ter anudder, ter fry 


Uncle Yorkers Governors. 


57 

fer de Guvn«r — Kase I dunno when I has had sech a 
haul 

‘‘Uncle Yorke, what do you do with all the money 
you make. You must make a good deal V 

“Well, I does,” says he modestly, knowing very well 
that to produce the impression of having “laid up 
money” lends a halo to any head. “I has saved up sum, 
dough not so much as I mought be ’spected ter.” 

Uncle Yorke has two reasons for expressing himself 
in these particular words, in the first place, he reserves 
his supremest contempt for what he calls “po’ white 
trash” and wishes to inspire some respect for his posses- 
sions, and on the other hand, he has no wish to 
draw any too much notice upon his stupendous wealth, 
as to inspire any plot against his life. 

“Do you put it in the bank?” 

“What bank you talkin’ ’bout ?” he asks suspiciously. 

“The bank up town, where everybody keeps their 
money ?” 

“No, chile, dat bank wouldn’ suit me; I wants my 
munny under my own eyes ! ” 

“Father says that it is safer to put your money in 
bank, than to try to take care of it yourself.” 

“Well, so’s it mought be fer enybody wid squintillyns 
o’ munny, like your Pa! But my little pile would git 
loss ’mongst all dat gole and silver ’longing to udder 
fokes. A dollar two, mo’ less, ter dem, ef dey couldn’t 
count fer it, would be a drap in de ribber ; but dollar 
two, mo’ less, look bigger’n dat house ter me. So^s I 
keep’s mine safe.” 

“What do you do with it then. Uncle Yorke ?” 


58 Virginia, 

“I ties it up in a nold frazzled sock, like baits — an 
berries it.” 

“Where ? In the graveyard ?” 

“Whar? Now whar? I didn’t gin yer credit fer 
much sense, but I shorely gin yer credit fer more’n dat. 
Whar? I changes de places uvery day, twixt de two 
suns, fer I knows dat dar’s plenty fokes noticin’ o’ yer, 
when yer aint got de leas idee. An’ I nuvver aint gwine 
ter do no sech foolish thing as ter be walkin’ backwards 
an’ f urruds ter de same place, time arf ter times ! ’Taint 
no use fer a’ body ter keep follerin’ me up, ’bout no 
munny : kase dey gwine ter be ’spinted.” 

“Well, you ought to have a lot, by this time — selling 
to the Governor, and so on. I shouldn’t think that the 
Governor need to count his change.” 

“Well, now you’s a talkin !’ So’s you raought think. 
Haint I jess ben tellin’ you ’bout “dingin’ in de extrys?” 
Now you mought think dat de Guvners mought do a 
leetle bit on dat line o’ dingin’ de extrys, but dey don’t. 
An’ sum dem dun lookt like dey thunk ter fetch dem 
ter dat back dore, was nuff gloryn an’ honor, fer a po’ 
darkey. An’ I muss say, ef its de las’ werd, dat I’d hate 
ter see are uther nigger, dat I know, cropin’ up dat back 
steps wid his eyes an’ his feesh a shinin,’ ’toards me. I 
bleeve dat I’d drap ded — seein’ hissef give hissef dem 
ars ’pon de ’cassion.” 

“Who are you going to leave all of it to, when you 
die ?” 

“I dunno — Sally Ann, natcherally, an’ in cose, ’spects 
ter git it; but ef she do — she got to fine it fer hersef, 
when I leaves it; kase I mought jess be in a trance, an’ 


Unde Ybrke's Governors. 


59 

want it back gin, arfter she dun tuk posseshun; I got 
ter look out fer Uncle Yorke fust.’’ 

‘‘Now you all gwine on out; kase I’m gwine ter kerry 
dese here feesh mysef, an’ see how dat piece o’ Ian’ lie. 
An’ den sell in de market, arfter de Guvner git de prime 
pick.” 

“Oh, Uncle Yorke, ain’t you going to tell us anything 
about the Revolution this evening ?” 

“Nare werd, an’ don’t yer be speerin eny questions at 
me; I aint got no time ter stay an’ tell yer nuthin’ — ef 
yer uuver knows — an’ frum sum dem questions dat you 
axes me. I’m ’sprized at de little sense you gits in dat 
skule, whar you goes so reggler — when you ain’t playin’ 
truant. I sees yer, when yer little knows it, an’ I’m 
gwine ter save it up ’ginst sum ov yer. 

“So, go ’long now, an’ let me lock dis here dore.” 


BACON*S REBELLION. 


O NE morning, Tom finding time hanging heavy on 
his hands, straggles down to look at the river, 
and, en passant, Uncle Yorke, whom he finds, so 
to speak, rampant. 

Uncle Yorke is trying to fix some “corn-bags,’^ as he 
calls them, so as to set as comfortably as the conforma> 
tion of the bags allow, around his neck. As he takes 
them off to retie them, Tom asks what he is doing. 

“I’m gwine ober ter de mill ’pon de Chickahominy, 
fer ter have dis here corn ground into meal, an’ I’m try- 
in’ ter fix it so’s ’twont seem so heavy ter kerry, but 
heavy’s de werd. But, I shorely is tired of choking my- 
sef ter deth on cold pertaters.” 

“What are you going over there for? Why don’t you 
get your meal already ground? We do.” 

“Well, dey puts too menny things in de meal I has 
ter buy, an’ I wants ter see de corn groun’ mysef, an’ 
I’m gwine ter set by dat hopper ’twell mine cums out. 
When I wants meal, I wants meal ; an’ when I ain’t got 
gravel ’nuff in my gizzard, I’m gwine ter eat grit, an’ 
not befo’. An’ ef you feels like, an’ yer ma say so, you 
run ’long home an’ ax her, an’ meet me down by de 
markit, whar I’m got a job, an’ you kin go wid me, an’ 
I’ll fotch you back by Bloody Run.” 

Of course Tom “feels like.” 

It is a lovely day, and quite a romantic walk, as after 
going down by French Garden Hill, the scene of many 
of Tom’s hairbreadth escapes, they go on up along the 

6o 


Bacon’s Rebellion 


6i 


Btreani, Bacon’s Quarter Branch, or as Uncle Yorke 
calls it, Beakensquarter branch, all in a bunch. 

He recalls all that he knows of that affray, and a good 
deal that he doesn’t know, of the romantic career of 
that rash young man, of whom so many conflicting ac- 
counts are on file. 

“De fights was kinder mixed up. De Injuns was 
tightin’ kase dey wanted ter, an’ Mars’ Bacon was 
fightin’ kase de Injuns was, an’ de Guvner was fightin’ 
kase dey bof was. Now, dis here’s a long time ago, an’ 
Injuns is mo’ like chills an* fever dan eny thing else dat 
I knows. You takes ’nuff medecine fer ter brek de 
chills, an’ on de seventh day, or de fourteenth day, or de 
twenty-onth day, out dey breks agin, an’ den dey disap- 
peers, an’ den on sum other seventh somethinth, dey 
cums out, like dey hadn’t nuvver stopped. Dat’s In- 
juns! Dey would fight, an’ stop, an’ den cummence 
agin ’pon de war-path. An’ de Guvner couldn’t, or 
wouldn’t stop dem, an’ fokes was gittin’ worn out or 
bein’ murdered when dey was least ’spectin’ it, an’ tired 
ov heerin’ war-whoops in de middle ov de night, an’ 
bein’ jerked outen de beds an’ chopped up. Dis here 
Guvner warn’t one ov our Guvners, but a Britisher, dat 
dey had done sont here, an’ he wanted ter fight ov his 
own way, or didn’t want ter fight no ways, more’n likely. 
An’ he thought ’twas gret things ter be a Guvner, but 
his idees ov bein’ Guvner was ter dress fine, an’ ride 
easy, an’ give big tuckouts, an’ so on. An’, bein’, as I 
says, raised sumwhars else, he didn’t, fer suttenly, 
onderstan’ Injuns. 

*‘So dis here young Mars’ Bacon sont him werd dat ef 


62 


Virginia. 


he warn’t gwine ter stop dem Injuns, dat he was gwine 
ter take ’pon hissef ter stop dem. An’ de Guvner sont 
werd ter him ter mine his own biziness, an’ he sont werd 
back, dat he was minin’ ob his own biziness when he 
was fixin’ ter keep de Injuns frum killin’ ov him. An’ 
he raised a lot ov soldiers dat thunk same way as he did, 
an’ dey marched all ’bout, an’ finully sottled deyseves, 
jess ’bout here. An’ de Guvner sont werd ’round, fer 
everybody not ter hep him, kase he were a rebel, an’ 
’ferin’ wid de King’s jestis. ’Twarn’t like you sees it 
now, kase menny ob de trees ben cut down, an’ you ain’t 
nuvver seed trees like dem was, kase dey had ben here 
ever sense de werld were made. An’ de Injuns was hid 
all behine dem. Dat man fit an’ fit, day arfter day, an’ 
all dis here stream dat look so clar now, was runnin’ red 
wid de blood, an’ you see dem hummocks ober dar?” 

“Yes.” 

“Dem’s whar de Injuns was berried, by de hundreds 
an’ thousands. An’ look down at yer feet.” 

Tom looks down, and sees a lot of stones, apparently 
of regular size, though too large, he thinks, to play 
“jack-rocks” with. 

“Pick up dat one, pinted at one een, an’ squar at 
tuther.” 

Tom picks one up. 

“Dem’s Injun arrer-heds, an’ sum ov dem is pizen. 
You sees fer yersef how menny is here still, an’ dey was 
shot yers ago, an’ de sky was black, an’ de ground 
kivered, an’ dey rattled ’pon de grun an’ in de ar, like 
parched peas in a pan, big peas, an’ a big pan ’twas. I 
has heerd dat dat was de openest, an’ biggest, an’ one ov 


Bacon\s Rebellion. 


63 


de las’ fights dat dey had. An’ de Injuns was put down 
fer a long time, an’ de fokes tuk deir res’ easier fer a 
spell. An’ yit, de Guvner nuvver could understan’ 
’bout dat young man, an’ always sed dat he were a rebel, 
an’ couldn’t ’bey no orders, an’ sed dat he was gwine ter 
have him hung, ef he had cotched him ’fore he up an’ 
died. Dough ’tis rnoughty easy fer fokes ter say what 
dey gwine ter do, when dey ain’t got any mo’ chanct 
ter do nothin’. But de Injuns was squelched, an’ dat’s 
what we was wantin’. Dey was squelched.” 

The old man, with a sigh of weariness and relief, seats 
himself beside the banks, and takes the bags off to rest 
his weary shoulders: 

‘^When I was in dat war, I were younger dan I now is, 
an’ I cud a kerried four o’ dese here bags, an’ glad ’nuff 
ter git de corn ter kerry. But ole age is now cropin ’pon 
me an’ I’se mose like 

“ ‘Po’ Uncle Ned, 

Who had no teef ter eat corn cake. 

So he had ter let corn cake be.’ 

^‘But I suttenly gwine ter eat corn cake long’s I kin. 
So let’s keep a muvin’. Dat’s de mill ober yonder, an’ I 
pintedly is pleased ter feel dat I’se near dat journey’s 
eend.” 

It makes a pretty picture. The mill on the bank of 
the stream, with the tall sweeping trees that overshadow 
it, with their long trailing branches shining in the 
waterway. A vision of peace, after the recital of cruel 
and bloody wars, to which its murmur lent a running 
accompaniment, but unheeded, long years ago. 

The man that works the mill owns it, and takes a 


64 


Virginia. 


great pride in his dusty calling. He is very cheerful, as 
he should be, leaning on such a supporting staff, as the 
“staff of life.” For I know of nothing so calculated to 
give a sense of power as flour. Though Uncle Yorke’s 
great strength and energy, as well as his white solid 
teeth, attest the efficacy of corn meal also. 

Tom asks him, full of his recent experience, if he 
knows anything about Bacon’s rebellion ? but he de- 
clares that he couldn’t say positively, as he was not then 
born, and never commits himself on hear-say. 

“Uncle Yorke recollects a heap.” 

“Yes, but everybody can’t recollect what Uncle Yorke 
does; I’ve heard of Uncle Yorke’s recollections before. 
The only thing that I recollect is a good joke: Now can 
you tell me why a miller wears a white hat. Master Tom ? 
A white hat ?” 

“Does he always ? I see that you do.” 

“Always — and now what for?” 

“Well,” says Tom hesitating — “if he does” — and looks 
at Uncle Yorke, whose eyes twinkle. 

“Did yer uver hear of a bar-heded miller ?” 

“No, I don’t know — you are the first I ever saw; but 
then I don’t know many millers.” 

“Well, then I suppose,” says he, feeling his way and 
seeing no help from Uncle Yorke, “He — er — er — does it 
to keep the flour from spoiling a black one.” 

Uncle Yorke shakes his head disapprovingly. 

“I ’spected dat you would a knowed dat. Mars’ Tom, 
kase dem little chillen in Nose Arks axed dat riddle.” 

“You tell him. Uncle Yorke,” says the jolly miller. 


Bacon^s Rebellion. 65 

“'Well, he war it ter keep his head warm.” And the 
old man laughs heartily at Tom’s annoyance. 

“Pshaw, I knew that.” 

“Well, ef you knowed it, why didn’t you say so ? Dat 
won’t go down, Mars’ Tom. 

“Now here’s ’nudder. Maybe yer knows dis too. 

“What make him war a hat a tall ?” 

“Well, of course — ” 

“Oose what, Mars’ Tom ?” 

Tom fails to elucidate. 

“Well, he war it ter keep his bar frum turnin’ white.” 

“Does it? I heard that wearing your hat in the 
house made you grow bald. Does it keep it from getting 
gray?” 

“In cose, kase whar’s all dat flour dust gwine?” 

“Oh, pshaw. Uncle Yorke.” 

“Now here’s another. Master Tom,” says the miller, 
“1 don’t believe Uncle Yorke, even, knows this — 

“When is a miller like a garden ?” 

“It’s something about the flower, I’m certain, but I 
don’t know what.” 

“Yes. When the flour’s blowing all over him.” 

“That’s a good one. Do you know any more ?” 

“I don’t ask but three at a time. Now run out and 
play in the water, and get the dust out of your throat 
and eyes. And keep out of the mill-race.” 

Tom has a happy time waiting for the meal to be 
ground; Ashing and wading around, thinking over Uncle 
Yorke’s tales. 

All his yarns sift down into Tom’s mind and remain 
vivid, with a stability that resembles Uncle Yorke’s ar- 


66 


Virginia, 


bitrarincss. And when Tom’s curriculum at college is 
over, and Tom’s diploma hangs on his fond father's wall, 
Tom could have stood a much better examination over 
Uncle Yorke’s recollections, which are far more real to 
him than the facts as narrated by standard historians. 

The meal is finally ground to Uncle Yorke’s satisfac- 
tion, and he shoulders the bags for the return, sighing 
volubly over the toll mulcted by the miller. 

‘‘I hates ter see dat meal groun’ frum de corn dat I 
dun raised niysef, go inter de jaws ov dat man. Sum- 
times I thinks dat I had ruther pay de munny, an’ den 
again I ain't got de munny. But I feels cumfertuble 
now, wid dis here nice warm meal dat I knows all ’bout, 
an’ gwine home all safe.” 

When they arrive at the brow of the hill, below which 
Bloody Kun still runs, he stops and eases his aching 
shoulders again; lighter though the sacks are by the 
toll. 

Tom refuses to quench his thirst at the sparkling 
source, having a weird feeling that the water is still 
stained. 

‘‘Oh,‘ Uncle Yorke, I couldn’t! Over here the ar- 
rows fell like rain, and down there the water flowed red, 
and I seem to hear the groans of the dying in the sound 
of it now. Doesn’t it sound sad to you ?” 

“Runnin’ water allers has a kinder spell ter me, an’ 
allers soun’ sorrowful. Why it cums, an’ how it cums, 
I dunno. But ef you mine, all dem “Cunjur” fokes has 
deir witch werk bruk, by jess layin’ dem in runnin’ 
water. You’s heern ov dat I knows.” 

“Yes, I have. But why. Uncle Yorke?” 


BacBVbS Rehellion, 


67 


“I diinno chile, ’cept dat de Lord dun laid down his 
spell ’pon de water, an' you knows when de Truf shines, 
dat's white’s black, an’ black white. Oh, Lord, how 
long?” 

This is an interjection frequently heard from the lips 
of negroes, and to Tom, apparently meaningless, but in- 
terpreted by after events. 

“An’ now. Mars’ Tom, I’m gwine ter tell you, what 
you mought make a business ter reelects heresumarfter, 
dat only de Lord God Amighty cud made dat water run 
clar, arfter cumin thru de dut, an’ de san, an’ de muck, 
an’ de ruts, an’ clay ov de ground. It’s like a po’ sinner, 
parsing long thru de mire ov de werl. Fer nuthin’ but 
de Lord’s will cud fotch him out clean an’ wholesum, 
arfter all dat mud dat mought sile him an’ spile him.” 

They pursue their journey for awhile in silence. Tom 
is tired, and has a great deal to think of. 

“Where did Bacon live, Uncle Yorke ?” 

“Well, dere’s a house, an’ a fine one, not so very fur 
down dat ribber, dat dey say he lived at. But de fokes 
whar libs dar now, dey ses dat dey don’t bleve it, kase 
ef de facs was known, dat de Guvner possed him as a 
rubbul, an’ ef ’twas his’n, dey wud have ter gin it up. 
An’, bein’ as I dun said, a fine lookin’ house, dey don’t 
warnt ter let loose. Dere’s a menny reesuns dat fokes 
has. sides de ones dey gives out. An’ it’s a gitin’ late, 
an’ we mus’ part at dat cornder.” 

“Goodbye, Uncle Yorke. I certainly have enjoyed 
myself.” 

“I knowed you would. An’ I’m sorry dat you ain’t 
got nuthin’ ter put meal in, or I would gin you sum ter 


68 


Virginia. 


kerry ter Mis’ Oar’line. But ef you cums down nex’ 
Satterdy an’ brings me a wheat biskit, I’m gwine ter 
bake yer a corn dodger what’ll melt in yer mouf.” 

“All right, Uncle Yorke. And what else do you 
want?” 

“What else does I want? Jess take de dicsionary 
chile, an’ ef you sees enything dat enyboddy cud want, 
jess write my name long side ov it. But I’m glad fer 
sho’, dat Bacon keeped de peace in my time, an’ dat I 
got a piece o’ Bacon fer ter keep de pot bilin’.” 


UNCLE YORKERS 1812. 


^ ^ T TNCLE YORKE, if you know so much about the 
U Revolution and General Washington, you are 
bound to know something about the war of 
1812. Now, don’t you ?” 

“Bound ter ! Yes, I is bound ter. I bound you ain’t 
got de fust idee how much I does know ’bout dat time. 
I aint so sure I didn’t put de stop to dat war.” 

“You, Uncle Yorke? Tell us how and see if it agrees 
with what we have heard ? If you were there you ought 
to know best.” 

“I was dar, an’ as fer knowin’ — what I don’t know 
ain’t wuth knowin’. I v/as dar, an’ I dar anybody ter 
’spute my werd.” 

“We aint going to. Uncle Yorke.” 

“When was you horned anyhow? Long time sense 
dat time ? Well I was born long time fore dat time, an’ 
had done got my senses tergether, an’ waitin’ fer a ’cas- 
sion ter exercise dem, an’ I pintedly did. 

“I had made up a trip down de ribber, an’ was jess 
fixin’ ter put de las of de cargo ’pon de boat, an one ov 
my frens cum ’long an’ say: 

“ ‘Uncle Yorke, does you know what you is ’rangin’ 
fer ?’ 

“I ought ter,” says I, “kase I done ranged up an’ down 
dis ribber more years dan you’s got bars ’pon yer head. 

“ ‘Well, so’s you mought; but ef you carries out dem 
’rangements dis time, bars or no bars, dis de las.’ ” 

69 


70 Virginia. 

“You talks moughty brash. How you knows so much 
more’n udder fokes ? 

“I was cotched out o’ doors dat time shore, kase I 
hadn’t heerd nuthin’, fer I had dun been off inter de 
woods fer a cupple ov munths, an’ didn’t ’form mysef 
ov nuthin’ arfter I had cum back, jess hurryin’ ter git 
dem pelfesses on de market ’fore de winter set in, an’ 
here I was bein’ ’structed by my gret-gran-chile, an’ ef I 
hadn’t seed dat de news he had was reel ’portant, by his 
face, I would ha’ jess sot down ’pon him an’ went on, 
but I had sense ter stop, an’ well I did, fer ’twas ov de 
fust an’ las’ importunce ter me uv all de yearth. 

“De British was on de pint uv cumin’ up de ribber in 
de ships, an’ dar I was, a target fer de fust. An’ I 
knowed dat Mars’ Oodwallis was gwine ter bar a grudge 
’ginst me fer de part I tuk in dat sword bizness. An’ 
you may be shore dat I hustled dat boat back, an’ den 
tuk ’pon mysef ter do what I had dun learned projectin’ 
’round wid Mars’ Washingtum — I reconnoitered. Does 
yer know what dat means? Yer does. Well, ’bout dat 
time I heed a rustlin’ mongst de bushes, an I gin one big 
whoop ; an’ I got behine de biggest tree dat I cud see, 
an’ kep’ gettin backwardser an’ backwardser, twell I was 
considerable distance off, an’ den I looked ’bout fer 
sumboddy to hope me ; but I didn’t fine noboddy, kase 
dey was all ’pon de same urran, an’ lookin’ out fer dey- 
seves. An’ when I foun’ de kerruge ter git back ter 
whar I started frum, all de ships was dun goned. De 
whoop dat I giv’, or sumthin’ else, had dun skeered dem 
off. An’ ef I had a mine, I ’spec dat I cud git a pen- 
shun frum de guvment, fer de part dat I tuk in skeerin’ 


Uncle Yorkers 1812. 


71 


ov dem, an’ anuther fer my widders an’ orphuns, an’ 
sen dem ter skule free. But I aint ’plied fer it yet, 
dough I keeps de noshun in de back uv my hed fer hard 
times.” 

“Did you uver go down ter dat Lamcastin (Lancas- 
trian) skule, Mars’ Tom ?” 

“No. What for? Why?” 

“I jess axed ef yer uver bin dar. Dat’s de place whar 
dey eggicates dem widders an’ orfins o’ dem eighteen 
hundred an’ twelve men whar was kilt in de war. I 
went down dar wid Mars’ Kearter fer ter kyar sum 
papers fer him, one day, when dey was holin’ ’xami- 
nashuns fer de Truskees. Dey was a likely lookin’ lit- 
tle set 0’ chillen as uver you seed, an’ dey all cumed 
furruds, wid deir fingers in de moufs, an’ bobbed a 
kurchey, an’ lookt mighty peart wid de little white 
apuns on. 

“De teecher say ter one : ‘Spell lady.’ ” 

“La — lady.” 

“Spell baby.” 

“Ba — baby.” 

“Spell Mary.” 

“Ma — Mary.” 

“Spell butter.” 

“But — butter.” 

“I dunno ’xactly what was de matter, but de truskees 
larfed a sight ’bout it. Does you see anythin’ ’miss 
’bout dem werds ?” 

“Why, Uncle Yorke, they didn’t spell but half of the 
word.” 

“Dat ’counts fer it den, kase Mars’ Kearter allers 


72 


Virginia. 


said when butter was scase at his house, ‘Dis here’s dat 
Lam-sum-casting skule butter — not harf ’nuff ter go 
’round.’ I nuvver did know what he meant ’fore dis 
day! Dat ’counts fer it ! Well! well! 

“My eggicashun ain’t bin’ much ’cept fer de use uv my 
eyes an’ years. Dat piece dat you was reedin’ ter de 
chillen’ was ’bout much spellin’ an’ ritmetik as I cud 
hoi’: 

“Ab — Ketch a crab ! 

Go — Let him go ! 

In — Ketch him gin ! 

1 — 2 — 3 — Gib him ter me !” 

“What was it about the sword business ? Tell us ! ” 

“Yer don’t mean ter say dat you aint heerd ’bout dat ? 
Pore ignurunt creeturs. What does yer ma an’ pa sen’ 
you ter skule fer? ’Cept ter get shet uv you, I don’t 
see de good dat it do. But I aint got de time dis evenin’. 
Yer’ll have ter wait, dough it shore is a pitty. But I 
dun promised ter kerry dis bundle fer Mis’ Kurnel 
Kearter, an’ I got ter hussel, kase I don’t warnt ter 
cross by dat Oimetry, nor yit ter pass dat Bloody Eun 
arfter dark.” 

“What have you got in the bundle. Uncle Yorke ?” 

“Lay overs, ter ketch meddlers.” 

“Well, where are you going ?” 

“I’m gwine whar I’m gwine, dat’s whar.” 


UNCLE YORKERS SURRENDER. 


^ ^ A N WHAR did dey say dat de Revolutionary war 
/A 'gun?” They are still on the inexhaustible 
subject. 

“Bunker Hill,” suggests a little boy, uncertainly. 

“Nor, not Bunkre’s Hill — ” 

“Boston ?” 

“Nor — dat war 'gun on de decks ob a boat. Dey got 
ter ’sputin' 'bout whar ter put de tea, an’ one ob um 
wanted ter put it in a deesh, an' de res' wanted ter put 
it in de tea pot, an’ twixt dem, dey spilt all ob de tea, 
an' stamped on it an' trompledit, an' den 'twarn't fitteii 
fer nare one ter drink, an' de whole kit an' bilin' had to 
be flung ober in de dock, an' twarn't deir owns tea no 
ways, but blonged ter King George, an' he warn't gwine 
ter stan' no sich impidence frum nobody, an' dat 'gun 
de war, ter my own sartain knowledge. An' tain't no 
use fer nare one ob you ter tell me nuthin' you heerd. 
Dat’s de zact trnf, kase I heerd 'bout it at de time, an' 
what you heers is jess heersay, an' eny Jedge of de Cote 
tell yer dat ain't no evidunce ob nuthin'. I warn't no 
eye witness, but I were ear witness. 

“Now, dat Boston tea business always stumped me, 
kase enybody knowed dat a deesh warn't no fitten place 
ter put tea noways — dout dey was cats an' dogs — an' 
dough dey 'haved deirseves, mighty like dem animils, 
when dey gits deir spunk up, still dey couldn't lap — an' 
I knows — kase I done try, many an’ many a time, an' so 

73 


74 


Virginia. 


has you, I speck. By de way, I sees you lookin’ at dat 
dog an’ werkin’ yer mouf.” 

Tom laughs. 

“An’ I worn’t de onliest one, whar cornsidered it 
foolish kind o’ way fer grown fokes ter ’have deirseves, 
kase somebody done writ a song on de subjeck. I used 
ter sing it, but I done fergit all but one vers, but dat 
vers got de gist ob de matter in it.” 

“Sing it. Uncle Yorke. Never mind about just one 
verse. You can sing that over once or twice, and that’ll 
be just as good.” 

For Uncle Yorke had a splendid voice once on a time, 
and still has many deep true notes, and his snatches of 
numbers of otherwise forgotten songs are of unfailing 
amusement to the listening boys. 

“Oh ! ’twas a foolish ting, 

Fer a Parlament an’ King, 

Ter quarl about a deesh o’ tea. 

An’ loose a Conteree.” 

“But as I was sayin’; dey fit an’ dey fit, from Boston 
an’ Bunker’s Hill, up an’ down de ribber; up de ribber, 
down de ribber, fer seben years — day an’ night, dark an’ 
light, sunshine an’ shadder, foul an’ far wedder — twell 
one day Mars’ Genrul Washingtum was down on York 
Ribber an’ cotch Mars’ Lord Oodwallis nappin’, an’ he 
grabbed him by de scruff ob de nake, an say : 

“‘Now you say “S’render,” you little Monkey; an’ 
ef I had knowed you warnt no bigger dan dat I’d a crep 
up on yer long time ’fore dis.’ 

“An’ Lord Oodwallis say ‘S’render,’ too, fas’ ’nuff; 
but when Mars’ Washingtum say in a voice like thunder ; 


Uncle Yorkers Surrender. 


75 


(an’ I were glad dat he warnt ’dressin hissef ter me.) 
‘Take off dat sword, yer pizen rascal, an’ han’ it here,’ 
he didn’t want ter do it ; an’ I don’t blame him, kase 
dat handle ob dat sword was jess kivered wid dimons, 
an’ pearls, an’ rubies, all ’long down de blade, an’ he 
clap his han close, like he was gwine ter ’spute ’bout it. 
An’ Mars’ Washingtum gin me a glance, an’ I stepped 
up a mite nigher, an’ was jess waitin’ fer a werd frum 
Mars’ Washingtum, fer ter take him by his hine leg, slim, 
spindly little creeter dat he was, an’ fling him crost de 
millpond, but Mars’ Washingtum say, squeezin’ his 
goozle little harder : 

“ ‘Gimme dat sword, or I show you which side’s Cod 
an which side’s Wallis.’ 

“An’ den he gin it up, peaceful, ef not pleasful. An’ 
den Mars’ Washingtum han’ me de sword, an say: 
‘Uncle Yorke, take dat sword on home wid you, an’ wait 
twell I cum, kase I knows you wants ter ’joy yer Forth 
July.’ An’ I tuk it and cumed on home, an’ ’joyed de 
Forth in de usual way, ob sellin’ ’simmon beer an’ gin - 
ger horsecakes up an’ down de hill, outside de Oaptul 
Squar. An’ when I ’livered up dat sword ter Mars’ Gen- 
rul, he gin me a Eagle — ” 

“An Eagle, Uncle Yorke?” 

“Yes, a Eagle.” 

“Where did he get it ?” 

“What did you want with it ?” 

“Did you want an Eagle ?” 

“Course I wanted it.” 

“What did you do with it ?” 

“Wasn’t it a funny thing to give you ?” 


76 


Virginia. 


“Now, you’s talkin’ ’bout one thing an’ I’se talkin’ 
’bout nuther. I didn’t ha’ no manner o’ use fer a fly in’ 
Eagle — but dis one flew, too,” and he sighs and laughs 
at the same time. 

“What was it. Uncle Yorke?” 

“De Eagle dat he gin me was a ten dollar gole piece. 
An’ I specs dem sort o’ burds was plentifuller den, dan 
dey is now; kase I don’t heer nobody talkin’ so free ’bout 
Eagles, as dey did den — an’ dat’s de fust — an’ dat’s de 
las’ I has had my bans on. An’ I kep’ it sewed in my 
galluses fer — I dunno how long, but de times was hard, 
an’ dat Eagle had ter take his flight plum out o’ sight; 
an’ he ain’t cum back no more, bringin’ his kinfokes 
wid him. 

“A ten-dollar gole piece soun’ mighty big, but it didn’t 
’gree wid my notions ov Mars’ Ginerul’s freehandedness 
— kase dat sword was a powerful ’sponsibility fer a pore 
nigger, an’ I warn’t nuthin’ but a pore nigger at de bes’; 
an’ I mought ha’ run off wid dat sword, and de price ov 
dat sword would ha’ set me up fer a long life; an’ stid ’o 
dat, here I is bakin’ ash cake by de fire, an’ fryin’ feesh, 
where I has ter ketch outen de ribber wid my own bans, 
an’ den cook dem by de fire dat I makes my own sef an’ 
den set down an’ eat dem by my lone sef — dout you call 
a dog cumpny.” 

“But Uncle Yorke, you don’t need to live by yourself. 
I heard you say that you had a daughter somewhere ?” 

“Yes, I has, an’ she would be moughty glad fer me 
ter stay wid her, an’ moughtier glad fer ter cum an’ stay 
wid me. But I done built dat house mysef, an’ I gwine 
ter lib an’ die in dat house by mysef, an’ 1 don’t want no- 


Uncle Yorhe’s Surrender. 


77 


body livin^ iu dat house, kase I don’t want nobody dyin’ 
in dat house; ter have deir hants trompin ’round arfter me 
when I ain’t lookin’ fer dem, an’ keepin’ my mine stir- 
red up, lookin fer dem, when I don’t see um. An’ I 
gwine ter lib, an’ I gwine ter die in dat house by mysef, 
kase I ain’t nuvver heerd ov nobody’s own speret hantin’ 
dem. Has you ?” 

“Do you believe in ghosts, Uncle Yorke?” 

“Does I b’lives in ghoses ? Yes, I does mo’ dan b’lives 
in dem ; I knows in dem. An’ ’taint no use fer you ter 
ax no mo’ questions on dat subjec. Mars’ Tom, kase Mis’ 
Oarline aint gwine ter like it, ef I tells you all I knows.” 

“Uncle Yorke,” says a little boy, “didn’t they fight 
anywhere except on the river banks ?” 

“No whars else, chile, kase de places dey was fightin’ 
fer was all ’long sides de ribber. You see, twas dis way : 
de fokes was feared ob gittin’ loss, ef dey went out into 
de wilderness, an’ so dey jess built all ’long whar dey 
knowed whar dey was, an’ den ef dey got fiustrated or 
skeered, dey could jess roll up deir duds an’ take ter de 
boats in de night time, an’ go on out wid de tide ; an’ 
dey knowed dat would swim straight on ter de ocean, 
an’ when dey got dar dey knowed dat dey had only ter 
go straight crost, ter git ter whar dey cumed frum. You 
see, now, fokes had sense ’fore you was born, an’ all de 
brains ov de world aint jess waited ter be bailed out fer you.” 

“Uncle Yorke,” says a boy slowly, who has been hesi- 
tating a good while, and has, at last, resolved to take 
his life in his own hands. “My History doesn’t say that 
the surrender of Lord Cornwallis took place on the 
Fourth of July — ” 


78 


Virginia. 


“Your Histryl Your Histry don't say so,” repeats 
the old man scornfully. “Den dat Histry got sum ree- 
sun ob its own fer 'spressin' ob de truf. An' whar was 
I ? An' whar was you at dat time ? Haint I jess been 
tellin' Mars' Tom 'bout de 'nitials on dat turn stun ? 
An' here cum 'long sumbody whar warnt dar, nor likely 
ter be dar, an' 'sputin de werds ob a gentleman whar 
was dar, an' in the thickset ov de fight. An' yer knows 
ef I was white dat 'twould be much's your life's wuth 
ter say so ter my face An' now, clar out! De las' one 
uv you ! An' don't yer nebber cum here no mo', kase I 
•int gwine ter have mysef 'suited no mo' by a passel ov 
little low-lifed creeters sich as you. Clar out, dis time ! 
An' fer good an' all, 

“Ef I is black, I aint no plum puddin fer ter be kiv- 
ered wid sass. Now you heers me: Clar right out.” 


THE EASTERN SHORE. 


C i T STOFT talkin^” resumed Uncle Yorke the day af- 
1 ter, “ ^bout Mars’ Wise, kase dey lived ober ’pon 
dat Eastern Sho’, an’ I knowed ef dat I onct 
started ’pon dat Eastern Sho’, dat I warnt gwine ter 
stop twell spang midnight, er plum day brek.” 

“Well, Uncle Yorke, you’ve got plenty of time this 
evening. Tell us now. What was the matter about the 
Eastern Shore?” 

“Nuthin’ de matter. Dat Eastern Sho’ de heart o’ de 
werld. An’ I say so, an’ I aint feard dat enybody dat 
knows it, aint gwine ter bar out dat ’sertshun. Dat 
Eastern Sho’ de heart o’ de werld. 

“You jess got ter scuffle fer a little bred ter eat, an’ 
bred aint no hardships, dar or enywhars else. But jess 
git de bred; an’ you kin lay down ov nights in peace ter 
sleep, an’ when you wakes up in de mornin’, de fat ob de 
Ian’ is all spred out before yer ; yer jess got ter git up. 
All you got ter do, is ter git up, an’ tek hold, ’fore de 
next tide cum in. Hit’s de place fer de lame an’ de lazy, 
fer sho’. All ’long dat sho’, strowed wid clams, crabs, pen- 
nywunkles, shrumps, ter pick an’ choose. All you got 
ter do, is ter mek up yer mines, of yer likes dem 
bes’, raw or cookt. Ef yer likes dem cookt, dars drift- 
wood ’nuff, ’pon dat sho’, ter cook all you wants, ’dout 
sturbin’ ner sturrin’ nuther step. 

“Den you jess got ter drap a line, an’ feesh, fresh an’ 
salt, dar, waitin’ ter bite, an’ leetle feyther, off de sho’ 
Oshters fer de grabblin’. An’ dey is oshters! You 


Virginia, 


dunno what oshters is, yer jess think yer do, ef yer aint 
nuvver eat dem fresh outen de salt water. It mek me 
hongry ter talk ’bout dem. 

“An’ all up in de reeds o’ dat Ohespeek bay de wile 
geeses nesses. An’ I dun seed dat bay kivered, menny o’ 
times wid kanvis back an’ summer ducks twell you 
couldn’t mek out whether dey was ’pon de water er de 
dry Ian’. Summer ducks too pritty ter eat, good as dey 
tasses ; wid de red an’ de blue, an’ de green an’ de white, 
an’ de black fethers; painted ’pon him like a picture. 
But de res’ o’ de wile ducks aint fitten ter eat, kase dey’s 
feeshy. I dunno what mek dat go ’ginst dem, kase feesh 
good nuff in de right place, an’ its my business ter know. 
But eny thing dat tasses like dem aint fitten ter eat. Its 
jess like dese here harf-stariners ; it’s all put on, an’ aint 
de reel stuff, an’ enything dats make-believe aint nuv- 
ver wholsum. Sour things mighty good, but enything 
dat ought ter be sweet, an’ turn sour, aint good. Why 
so? Fine a reesun. I dun found one, but maybe dat 
aint krect. 

“Dars tarrapin, too. Tarrapin stew mighty sarched- 
fer desh, ober dar. Dough tarrapin stew like rock soup 
— its what yer puts in it dat make rock soup good, an’ 
dat what make tarrapin stew good, too, kase you don’t 
tasses no tarrapin.” 

“What is rock soup, Uncle Yorke?” 

“Well, onct ’pon a time, a man cum trompin’ ’long 
beggin’, an’ he tole a ’oman dat ef she’d gin him a din- 
ner, dat he’d sho’ her how ter make sumthin’ outen 
nuthin’. An’ he called ov it rock soup, he sed dat he 
dun heered dat she was one de bes’ houskeepers ’bout 


The Eastern Shore. 


dar, an’ dat uverybody cumed ter ber to git good receeps, 
an’ dat he knowed dat she would like ter know sum- 
thin’ dat nare nuther ’oman in de country knewed, an^ 
so on, an’ kept up dis heer kine o’ flutterin’ talk, twell 
she ’greed. 

“Den he went out, an’ after lookin’ ’roun considerable, 
he fetched in a tollerable sized rock. He had dun tole her 
ter put on de pot ter bile, an’ have de water needer too 
warm nor too cole, but jess right. 

“When he fetched in de rock, she seed dat it warnt no 
’tickler kine o’ rock ; dat dar was plenty dem ’bout dar, 
an’ he sed dat she mought thank her stars den, for dat 
heresumarfter, dat he knowed she warnt nuver gwine ter 
eat no nuther kine o’ soup but rock soup. 

“Den he tole her ter chop up fine sum inguns, an’ one 
after nuther, sum pritty neerly uvery vegetable in de 
gyardin, an sum cole bits o’ meat, jess ‘leff-overs’, he say, 
an’ den he felt ov de water, an’ den put de rock in keer- 
fully, an’ tole her always to be pertickler ’bout de way 
she put de rock in. An’ he put in a piece o’ briled mid- 
dlin’ ter giv’ a rullish; an’ one arfter nuther, de rest o’ 
’gredgence — spices, vegutubbles an sech. An’ den he 
stept out an’ chopt wood fer a while. An’ when he cum 
in, he sed dat de soup was dun. An’ she tuk de pot of- 
ten de fire, an’ he ladled up a hit fer her ter tase, an’ by 
dat time she were reely hongry, an’ de soup tase good, 
sho’ nuff. An’ she went on dippin’ twell she cum ter de 
rock, an’ she sed : 

“ ‘Hi ! Dis heer rock’s hard as uver.” 

“In corse, madam, but de juice dun all biled out it 
in de soup, you ’low, yourself, dat dat soup’s good ?” 


Virginia. 


‘Yes, but what must I do wid de rock ?’ ” 

“Well, jess keep it, arfter you dun washed it, ter go 
by in yer sarch for rocks, when you wanted ter gether 
them/ An’ she ’low dat ’twas sure’ nuff good, an’ she 
was moughty ’bleeged ter him. An’ she went on bilin’ 
rocks in de soup, an’ ruccmmendin’ ov it jter her frens, 
twell one day she forgot ter put in de rock, an’ dey sed 
dey didn’t see no diffrunce. An’ it cum inter her mine 
dat dat rock warnt no nessary ’gredunt, no ways, an’ 
she tuk one ov dem an’ washt it, an’ sot it pon de shef 
in de porch, fer ter let him have it ’longsides his hcd 
whenuver he cumed her way ’gin; But he nuver cum 
dat way no mo’, an’ dat rock’s settin’ up dar yet, wid 
all de juce biled out it. Dat’s tarrapin. An’ I dunno 
ef I hadn’t jess leeve take de ’gredunts ov tarrapin stew 
an’ eat dem seprit, ’speshully de sugar, an’ de wine, an’ 
de brandy. 

“Den ’bout dem leetle wile ducks : onct Mars’ Frank 
tuk his gun an’ went out huntin’, he sed, an’ when he 
cum back, he lookt ’long sides de road fer sumthin’ ter 
shoot, ter make his werd cum true, an’ de only thing 
dat he seed was a leetle duck, an’ was ’bJeedged ter shoot 
it. An’ he brung it hum, an’ when Mis’ Elviry seed 
him, she say : ‘What luck ?’ 

“An’ he say ; ‘I shot a duck. Game skeerce.’ 

“ ‘Whar it ?’ she says. 

“ ‘Out dar ’pon dat shef,’ pintin’ ter a shef dat was 
nailed high up ’round a tree, ter keep de dogs frum git- 
tin’ de game. 

“An’ she lookt out de winder, an’ seed a duck bed 
hangin’ down, an’ sed no mo’. 


The Eastern Shore. 


“Nex’ day, when Harm Betsey cum ter git out dinner, 
Mis’ Elviry put a whole lot er bred an’ butter in de pan 
’dout sayin’ eny thing. 

“Marm Betsy say : ‘Mis’ ’Viry, what all dis here bred 
fer ?’ 

“An’ Mis’ ’Viry say : ‘Yer Marster kilt a duck yes- 
tiddy an’ dat’s fer de stuffin’.’ 

“ ‘Has you seed dat duck, Mis’ ’Viry?* 

“ ‘Yes,’ says Mis’ ’Viry, ‘it’s out dar ’pon de shef, an’ 
ef you had been ’tendin’ ter yer business properly, you 
would a had dat duck all reddy ter bake.’ You knows 
well’s I do, how long it take ter fix a duck nice.’ 

“Marm Betsey take a long look at de duck. 

“ ‘Does you want dat duck pickt fer dinner ?’ 

“ ‘In cose I does. An’ you hurry ’bout it, an’ don’t 
say nare ’nuther werd, needer.’ 

An’ Marm Betsey jess draw down her mouf, an’ went 
out, kase Marm Betsey didn’t like noboddy findin’ no 
fault o’ her. 

“When dey sot down ter dinner, dar was a nice lookin’ 
deesh sot ’fore Mis’ ’Elyiry, an she sed : 

“ ‘Have duck ?’ 

“An’ Mars’ Frank lookt up suddint, an’ say : 

“ ‘Whar dat duck cum frum ?’ 

“ ‘Why, Frank, you kilt it yersef yestiddy. Will you 
have sum ter eat, terday ?’ ‘ 

“ ‘No, marm, thank you ; not eny, if I knows it !’ 

“An* Mis’ Elviry parst on ter de chillen, an’ one sed 
‘Yessum,’ an’ Mis’ Elviry ’gun ter carve de fowl, but 
when she stuck de knife in it, it all fell ter pieces in de 
deesh. 


Virginia. 


a ^Wby,’ sed she, ‘dis beer’s nutbin’ but stuffin’. 
Whar de duck, ‘Jeames ?’ ter de butler. 

“ ‘I dunno, Marm,’ Jeames sed snickerin’. 

“Mis’ Elviry was gittin’ mad den, kase dey was all 
snickerin’ round de table, an’ Mis’ Elviry couldn’t bar 
fer nobody ter laugh at her. 

“ ‘Step out ter de kitchin, den, an’ ax Marm Betsey 
ter step here.’ 

“Marm Betsey stepped dar. 

“Mis’ Elviry say : ‘I don’t unnerrstan’ dis here mat> 
ter, Marm Betsey. I don’t see no duck.’ 

“ ‘De duck’s all dar,’ sed Marm Betsey. 

“ ‘Whar ?’ sed Mis’ ’ Viry. 

“ ‘In de deesh.’ 

“ ‘Whar ?’ sed Mis’ Elviry. ‘I don’t see no duck,’ an’ 
by dis time Mis’ ’Viry’s eyes was gittin’ big nuff ter 
flash lightnin’, an Marm Betsey sed dat de time ter fool 
was gin out, an’ she sed : ‘Dar ’tis in de deesh,’ an’ tuk 
a fork an’ speared from behinst de stuffin’, a leetle, 
teensy animil, ’bout size yer two thums ; not a mite big- 
ger. Duck it was, wid arms an’ legs, same’s yether 
ducks, but so tuff dat it couldn’t be cut wid a knife, an’ 
so feeshy dat noboddy under de sun could eat it, ef it 
had been big nuff ter eat. I bleeve in my soul dat duck 
swum ’roun Nose Arks. 

“Marm Betsey said, when dey had dun stopt larfin’ at 
Mis’ Elviry an’ de duck, dat Mis’ had tolt her ter hole 
her tongue, an’ not ter open her mouf no mo’ ’bout de 
duck, an’ she had dun stuft an’ fixt it ’cordin’ ter or- 
ders, an’ ef enyboddy was ter blame ’bout dat duck, 
’twarnt her. An’ dey all larfed so, dat Mis’ ’Viry had 


The Eastern Shore. 


ter larf, too, an’ oberlook de impidence. An’ Mars’ 
Frank calt her ‘Duckie’ fer uver afterwuds. 

“Den dars ’possums ober dar. An’ on frosty nights 
dey hangs ’pon de ’simmun trees most thick as de ’sim- 
muns.” 

“Oh! Uncle Yorke, you promised me some time to 
take me ’possum hunting. Are you ever going to do it ?” 

“I dun promist, aint I ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, you’s gwine on dat hunt den, sho’ as dere’s 
’possums ter eat ’simmuns.” 

“When ? Uncle Yorke, when ?” 

“Now you’s cumin’ neer by. When you’s big nuff, 
an’ ole nuff, an’ you kin cum down on de buthday nights 
an’ let me know how you’s gittin’ ’long. 

“But you is too ventersum. Mars’ Tom, kase ef I 
didn’t pay no mo’ ’tention ter you, dan you does ter me, 
what yer ’spose would a cumed ov you by now ? You 
would a bin loss, drownded an’ murdered more’n a duz- 
zen times alreddy, ter my sartin’ knowledge. 

“Now tell me; how offen you dun bin reskied frum 
under de horses’ heels ? 

“How menny times yon fell out de boat dar ? 

“How offen you bin hauled outen dat water, when you 
went feeshin ? 

“How menny times you bin on dat ice ’fore it friz ? 

“How menny times tree lims dun bruk wid you ? 

“Who was it went trabbellin’ an’ tech de ingine too 
dost ? 

“Who fell down dat empty house ? 

“Who was it warnted to fite, kase dey pult his hyar, 


Virginia. 


when dey drugged him outen de mill-race, when he was 
gwine down bed fo^ most ?” 

To all of these offenses Tom pleads conviction. 

“Ef you giv’ so much trubble in de day time ; how I 
gwine ter look arfter you in de dark 

“Bnt they were just accidents, Uncle Yorke.” 

“Maybe dey wus, an’ maybe dey wusn’t. But eny- 
ways, you got ter git outen de habit o’ accidents, when 
you looks ter me ter ketch holt ov you in de night see- 
som. 

“But hish ’bout huntin’, kase I’m mined now ter finish 
up ’bout dat Eastern Sho’, in one breth, kase ef I goes on 
’bout it much longer, I got ter pack up an’ crost ober. 
Chile ! Chile ! when I thinks o’ all dem rabbits, an’ birds, 
an’ partridges, an’ fesants, an’ de rest o’ dem ‘chicken- 
fixins,’ I won’t warnt ter put up no longer wid ‘commun 
doings.’ 

“An’ talkin’ ’bout Nose Arks — all dem fokes ober dar 
got boats o’ deir own, hisn an’ hern, an its jess like a 
picnic all de time. When you aint gwine ter clam bakes 
yer gwine ter oshter roases er feesh frys, ’cordin’ ter de 
seesom, an’ when dat time go by, dey’s trottin backwuds 
and forwuds ter dinner parties. An’ as all dem fokes, 
white and cullerd, car n’t git nuthin’ better in de wide 
werld dan jess what dey has alreddy got, dat de waves 
wash up ter der feet, dey puts all deir strengt in de 
cookin’, an’ sech cookin’! Chile! Chile! When dey 
goes visitin’ ’bout de country, de fokes got ter put deir 
beds tergether, fer ter give dem a nice time, sum yether 
ways dan eatin’. 

“An’ den, arfter all dat’s dun an’ sed in de upper part 


The Eastern Shore, 


de sho’ is all dem little Chiiigoteague ponies. Dat would 
be a nice place fer you ter go, Mars’ Tom. Ponies runin’ 
wile.” 

“How did they get there.” 

“I dun no, chile. Dey was dar when I got dar. An’ 
I’se hoped at menny a ‘round-up.’ ” 

“What is ‘round-up ?’ ” 

“When dey drives dem down ter mark an’ ter sell 
dem, an’ ter count dem. Dey is de cutest little creturs, 
in de werld, an’ dey aint nuver reel tame, kase dey’s wile 
ter de bone. But dey is a pritty sight ter see, hard-hed- 
ded as dey is. An’ I jess well stop now. I aint gwine 
ter sleep a wink all night long. I’m gwine ter be tarin’ 
up an’ down dat Eastern sho’, twell de sun rise, as it is, ! 
Ober dar ! ober dar ! 

“Onct Mars’ Frank was in Washingtum an’ ’vited a 
fren, oFhan like, ter cum ober ter an oshter roas, an’ 
sumwhar ’long in October, de fren cum. An’ dey met 
him at de boat an’ dey kerried him strait home, an’ dey 
had a dinner party dat day, an’ dey laid deirseves out, 
ter tell de new man all de ole jokes dat was warin’ out 
’mongst dem, an’ he never heerin’ dem ’fore, ’joyed dem 
moughtily. An’ de nex’ day, dey tuk him to an oshter 
roas, down ’pon de beech, an’ had fiddlers an’ u very thing 
dat could make de time fly. An’ nex’ day dey tuk him 
huntin’, an’ brung down mo’ burds dan he uvver thought 
flew in de skies. An’ next day, he sed dat he mus’ go 
home. 

“Now de fall ob de year dar is de best part ob de 
bes part de year. De trees look like dey was painted ter 


Virginia. 


order, an’ de sun sets ter match de trees, an’ de water 
looks like bofe put tergedder. 

“ ‘De place whar seein’ is fer seein’, 

Whar bein’ is fer bein’ ; 

Whar livin’ is fer livin’, 

Whar givin’ is fer givin’ ; 

Whar de wust dey got’s de bes’, 

Whar de weary need no res’. 

An’ yer jest as well ter say. 

When you lives ’pon dat bay, 

De whole, de live-long year 
One year-long Orismus day.’ 

“An’ dey axed was he sick, kase ef he was, dat was de 
place ter be sick. 

“ ‘No, he warnt sick.’ 

“ ‘Had he heerd bad news ?’ 

“ ‘No, he hadn’t heerd no bad news.’ 

“ ‘Had enyboddy dun been rude ter him, unbeknownst?” 

“ ‘No, noboddy haint dun nuthin’ but be too p’lite, ef 
eny fault was ter be foun’ ; dat he hadn’t nuver ’mag- 
ined no sech nice fokes in de werld. 

“ ‘But he was gwine, kase he sed dat ef he staid dar, 
dat he warnt nuver gwine ter be satteified no whars else, 
an’ he had reesuns fer livin’ ’long his own fokes ; dat his 
pa was ole an’ cudn’t spar him, an’ he was ’bleeged ter 
say good bye fer his own sake.’ An’ he aint de onliest 
one, needer. 

“Dats whar yer Unc’ Yorke’s mine was make up. 
‘Ober dar !’ ” 


TOM’S ’POSSUM HUNT. 


“Father!” cries Tom, rushing in, wildly excited, 
“Unc’ Yorke says he thinks I’m big enough to go 
’possum hunting. Can I go?” 

“If Uncle Yorke thinks so, you must be. I must 
confess that I’m no judge of a coon’s age. Yes — you 
can go. But you’ll have to mind Ps and Qs with Uncle 
Yorke; and if you don’t like the way Uncle Yorke does, 
you need not come complaining to me. Now, you un- 
derstand? You go on your own responsibility?” 

“All right!” and the delighted boy darts off. 

All day long, Tom is the cynosure of all eyes. For 
the nursery at the big house ; for the little darkies at 
the quarters. 

“Hits a mighty faver fer Unc’ Yorke ter take you,” 
says one, envyingly, “taint everybody Unc’ Yorke thinks 
fitten to go along o’ him.” 

“Now,” says Uncle Yorke, after the dogs were ready, 
while two other darkies stand waiting for the last in- 
structions, (Uncle Yorke, like a skillful general, gives 
all necessary information beforehand, so that at the 
moment of action, the hand will be at the trigger.) 
“Now, Mars’ Tom, you’se not only got ter mine every 
word what I say, but you got ter mine what yer says 
yerself. I wants you ter understan’ fore you starts.” 

“I know I’ll mind; I promise.” 

“Den, here we goes ! Furruds, boys !” 

It is a bright, bright night. The little boy, who has 

79 


8o 


Virginia. 


never been out at night before, is astonished to see how 
brightly the moon can shine. 

He walks proudly along beside the old negro, who, 
every now and then shakes his head and mutters; whether 
for some occult reason of his own, or to impress the im- 
portance of the occasion on the little boy, no one can 
explain. It is not given the Anglo Saxon mind to ex- 
plore the vagaries of the African brain. 

‘‘Now, Sam,” says Uucle Yorke at a crossing, “you all 
take dem dogs an go on furruds a little piece, an when 
you comes ter Mr. Wilson^s plantation fence, jess stop, 
an wait dar for me. I^m gwine de short cut.” 

As the bushes blow hither and thither in the moon- 
light and small gusts of wind sweep along the ridges; 
at the fork of the road Tom sees something white — 
perhaps the white underside of some big leaves as the 
wind tosses the branch up and down. 

“What’s that ! ! ! ” he says aloud. 

Uncle Yorke stops short and puts both fingers in his 
mouth, and gives the recalling whistle. 

“What’s the matter, Uncle Yorke ?” 

“Matter nuff,” responds Uncle Yorke, gloomily. 

“Let’s go on, what are you waiting for ?” 

“Taint no use gwine no further. Mars’ Tom, you’se 
dun bruk de luck.” 

“Oh, Uncle Yorke ! How ? Why ? Let’s go on.” 

“Taint no manner o’ use,” says the old man, stolidly 
and dispassionately, as if he did not see Tom’s eyes, 
brimming over with tears, which the little boy vainly 
endeavors to hide. And only shakes his head at Tom’s 
earnest entreaties. 


TonCs ^Possum Hunt. 


8i 


The assistants, with the dogs, make their appearance, 
and being used to Uncle Yorkers tyranny, dare not open 
their mouths and are only partially astonished, though 
they are plainly disappointed; but nothing can equal 
Tom’s chagrin. 

“What did I do ? Uncle Yorke — I won’t do it any- 
more.” 

“Twarn’t necessary to do nothin’.” 

“What did I say ?” 

“Now, Mars’ Tom, you’se overly young, enyways, an’ 
I might ha’ knowed it. I’m gwine ter tell you — yer 
mustn’t, when you sees anything remarkble, you musn’t 
jess say, right out : ‘What’s that ?’ like you did.” 

“Oh, Uncle Yorke! Why?” 

“Kase yer mustn’t.” 

“What ought I to say then ?” asks the subdued boy, 
“when I didn’t know what it was ?” 

“Dat’s jess it, jess it. Yer didn’t know. When yer 
sees eny thing, an’ yer dunno what it is, yer mustn’t say 
right out, ‘What’s dat ?’ an’ on d© forks ob de road, 
too ; it’s agin luck.” 

“What must I say then, next time?” as he realizes 
that there is no appeal from inexorable fate. 

“Ef yer sees enything remarkble, yer mustn’t take 
no notice right off, an’ right off so; but jess say, easy 
like dis : “Less go round de udder way.” I had dun 
turned off one way, kase I didn’t want ter spint yer, an’ 
when I sees dat second warnin’, I warn’t gwine ter take 
no chances ov breaking yer neck.” 

“But it wasn’t anything remarkable, was it?” says 
the bewildered boy. 


6 


82 


Virginia. 


“Dat’s jess it — jess it. But yer must know — here as 
well as de nex time, dat I ain't gwine ter take nobody 
out at nights wid me, ’possum huntin’, nor nowhars 
else, dat don’t know how ter keep his mouf shet.” 

This advice is directed to Sam and Joe, as well as 
Tom, and forms part of their training. 

And it was a whole year before Uncle Yorke tried 
Tom’s nerves again. 

And Tom doesn’t understand to this day what harm 
he did. 

For I’m Tom. 

Unless it occurs to me at this moment, for the first 
time, that Uncle Yorke thought that T had really seen 
what he called a “hant.” 


MOTHER CAREY’S CHICKENS 



MOTHER CAREY’S CHICKENS, 

OR 

MISSY AND SPICY ANN. 

^ ^ p VELYN,” says my Aunt Ruth, “I am going to 
iL send you over to your Aunt Winnie’s on Mon- 
day. She said something about you staying a 
fortnight, but as Colin has to go to the depot on Satur- 
day, he will call by, and if you want to come back then, 
you can come with him. Don’t say how long you ex- 
pect to stay, and they certainly will not ask you. But 
I expect that you will come home with Colin, anyway.” 

“But why, Aunt Ruth 

“Perhaps I had better not prejudice you before you 
go.” 

“I don t see why I should not have my visit out. Of 
course, I love to be with you, but Father speaks so af- 
fectionately of Aunt Winnie, and I like her myself, and 
I like Florrie and cousin Ocie. These are all that I 
have met.” 

“Yes,” she says, pursing up her mouth, “but neither 
you, nor your father have ever seen Missy.” 

“What is the matter with Missy? What does she 
do?” 

“I staid there two days last fall, and it would take 
two days to tell you what she did do. But, maybe, she 
has improved. At all events, she couldn’t be worse. 
As your father would like you to stay — stay if you 
can.” 

“She hasn’t improved. Mother,” says Colin, coming 

83 


84 


Virginia. 


in, and seating himself, with the evident intention of 
enlightening me as to my relative. 

“I positively forbid you to say one word, Colin. 
Whatever she did, she won't do it over again, to do 
Missy justice, she never repeats herself. Evelyn must 
try to get along with her as patiently as she can, and I 
shall consider it a great triumph, if she stays the two 
weeks out.” 

‘‘I shall certainly be there on Saturday, Evelyn, and 
find out the survival of the fittest.” 

But Aunt Ruth tells me enough to gather some idea 
of them, partly, to prevent my asking unfortunate ques- 
tions, or making untimely remarks. 

They are rather a peculiar family in some respects. 
As may be said of most country families, who do not 
have their raw edges rubbed off by contact with stran- 
gers. But also, it preserves individuality. So I sup- 
pose the matter as broad as it is long. There are ad- 
vantages either way. 

The three boys are named after Indian chieftains, 
Powhatan, Logan, Oceola. The three girls after states, 
Indiana, Florida, Missouri. They are none of them in 
the least alike in any quality, so much unlike that you 
would not take one to be the relation of the other. 
From every shade of brunette to the fairest Saxon type, 
do they range. Missouri, or Missy, as she is called, 
finishing up with lint white locks. 

I suppose they are fond of each other, but they are 
naturally undemonstrative, and from being educated in 
different schools and colleges, have different manners, 
and widely differing views on most subjects. 


Mother Carey* s Ghichens, etc. 


85 


It seems that Uncle Hngh sent the oldest boy to col- 
lege. Immediately after his graduation, and with hon- 
ors, he married the daughter of an overseer. This 
levelling propensity. Uncle Hugh professes to attribute 
to his mode of education. So he sent the next to a rival 
Institution. Since the second son refuses to marry to 
suit him, or to marry at all, he finds that the curriculum 
of that runs not to his fancy either. So Ocie is to be 
sent to a third. As yet, he is not old enough. I do not 
know if Uncle Hugh will approve of him, either. I like 
him immensely, myself, though this state of my mind is 
kept to myself. 

The oldest, Powhatan, is, I am told, entirely delight- 
ful, but as his wife is received very coldly at home, so 
coldly, indeed, that they generally prefer the warmth of 
their own fireside. The family naturally resent the in- 
troduction of this impossible woman, of whom no best 
is to be made, and Powhatan resents their resentment. 

However, he does not come during my visit. 

He is, moreover, independent of his father, and the 
plantation itself reverts to him, so he can be as high and 
mighty as he chooses. 

The girls’ mode of education is also varied; but as 
Uncle Hugh considers education for women, rather as a 
luxury than a necessity, he would have just as lief had 
them go to the same school, but for the fact that he pre- 
fers to be ‘‘contrairy,” though that is not the word he 
uses. In fact, if one thinks about the matter, they are 
all somewhat spoiled. Aunt Winnie being good her- 
self, and unsuspicious, and allowing for human nature; 
and Uncle Hugh, though stern enough to faults, only 


86 


Virginia. 


punishes when they are caught, in flagrante delicto. As 
he is much occupied, much escapes him. 

As they come, a hoy and then a girl, they are not by 
reason of age, companions. But they all unite in being 
perfectly devoted to Missy, who coming some seven years 
after Ocie, and though now about seven or eight years 
of age, is considered still, and treated as a very baby. 

Her acquaintance I make in the following manner : 

I get there late at night, and find all the grown peo- 
ple awaiting me. Missy, having fallen asleep with her 
clothes on, and nobody daring to awaken her, she has 
been consigned to bed in her wearing apparel, after anx- 
ious consultation on the advisability of letting her re- 
main on the sofa. 

But Logan, who seems to be as fearless as his name- 
sake, though of a merrier countenance, lifts her, un- 
aroused, on to her own bed, and everybody heaves a sigh 
of the deepest and most profound satisfaction. 

Next morning, however, I am aroused by a succession 
of ear-piercing yells. 

I am frightened, and shrink down under the bed- 
clothes, for the Indian names and associations have in- 
duced rather unpleasing dreams, and the awakening 
seems simply a continuation. 

Cousin Florrie moves, and I raise my head. She 
merely opens one eye, and then shuts it calmly, totally 
undisturbed. 

I ask in a whisper: 

“What is it ? Oh, what can it be 

“Just Missy.” 


Mother Carey's Chickens^ etc. 87 

“What are they doing to her ? Has she hurt herself ? 
Oh, why don’t you go and see ?” 

“I suppose that she wants something that she can’t 
get. I am sure that she is not hurt. What does Missy 
want, Mira ?” she asks of a maid coming in. 

“She want ter put on her Sunday-go-to-meetin’ 
clothes, and Mis’ won’t let her.” 

Then comes an interval between the screams, and I 
hear expostulating tones, then more shrieks — then in- 
tervals — then more shrieks, which finally subside. 

‘T suppose she has got what she wanted, she generally 
does,” laughs Florrie. 

“I shouldn’t think Uncle Hugh would want her to do 
that way, I say,” wondering what my father would find 
possible, under the circumstances. 

“Father,” says Florrie. “Father is a mile off, looking 
after the corn and the cotton.” 

When we go down to breakfast, she evidently has the 
clothes on. For she is dressed in a low-necked pink 
muslin, with short puffed sleeves, looped with gold arm- 
lets, and a gold chain around her neck, white socks, and 
ancle-tied slippers. 

I had heard she was pretty, but now her eyes are 
swollen, her face red and white in spots, and she is still 
sulky. She lets me kiss her, as we are bid, but she does 
not return the salute, and when I know her better I am 
surprised that I escape so easily. 

Behind her stands a little darkey, a year or two older 
than she is, called Spicy Ann, and generally shortened 
into Spicann. She is Mammy’s child, and Missy’s maid, 
given to her at her birth, and destined to share her life 


88 


Virginia. 


for better or worse. Instead of regarding this as an af- 
fliction, Spicy Ann looks upon herself as favored; and 
to do Missy justice, she shields Spicy Ann on most occa- 
sions. Spicy Ann is black, very black, and proves to be 
one of the most silent persons I have ever seen. It is a 
very unusual trait for a colored person. It may be the 
reason that she has escaped with her life so far, for 
Missy’s intervention only extends to a foreign interfer- 
ence; her own jurisdiction is arbitrary. 

Spicy Ann may have on other garments, but if so, they 
are all hid by a long sleeved apron, coming down to her 
heels. She is barefoot, and stands always, or nearly al- 
ways, just behind Missy; she looks like a dark shadow 
in high relief. 

After breakfast Aunt Winnie ties on a wide “Flat” 
and a little linen cape, to shield Missy’s bare arms, and 
sends us out to play. 

I am a year or two older that Missy, but here let me 
state, that I do not live in the country; in fact, it is my 
flrst visit to my relations, and a great many things, that 
I do so stupidly, is because I really do not know any 
better until it is all over. 

This is a very handsome old place, and the lawn is a 
marvel of beauty, with grand, magnificent patriarchs of 
trees near the house, in whose shade we are standing very 
uncomfortably. I am very shy, as well as somewhat 
afraid of Missy, remembering the Commanche yells of 
the morning. Missy has not yet said one word to me, 
any more than if she were dumb. 

“Let us walk in the garden,” I say at last, as I see a 


Mother Gareyh Chickens, etc, 89 

gate and a rose vine clambering over it, and I am pas- 
sionately fond of flowers. 

“We can’t go anywhere until Spicann finishes her 
breakfast,” she says positively. “Spicann, are you most 
done ?” she lifts up her voice and calls. 

Spicy Ann is sitting in full view, in the door of the 
kitchen, and not so far away that an ordinary tone of 
voice would not have reached her, but Missy bawls as if 
she were miles. 

Spicy Ann answers back with her mouth full : 

“Mos’,” and takes the plate out of her lap, from which 
she has been sopping “dripping” with hunks of corn 
bread, and sets it down on the ground, for a skinny spec- 
imen of a kitten to finish. 

“What makes your little cat so thin ?” 

“Summer cats ain’t nuver fat,” is the sententious an- 
swer. 

Missy stands first on one foot, and then the other, 
staring at me in a most uncomfortable and embarrassing 
way, her eyes asking all manner of questions, that she 
does not, however, put into words. I feel that she is a 
most uncanny child. 

Spicy Ann comes, swallowing the last unctuous mouth- 
ful on the way. 

Without saying one word, they commence, by giving 
the most rapid glances around up and down, and then 
saying: 

“Come on,” to me; they run to the well, which is just 
behind the kitchen. 

I follow, and reach the well a little while after they 
do. They seem to be entirely “en rapport” a sort of 


90 


Virginia, 


mind-twin is Spicy Ann; for very seldom, in my pres- 
ence, does Missy say what she is going to do, or they 
have a concert of action prepared before I join them. 

I never know. 

When Missy says “Come on,” Spicy Ann flies along 
without any question as to where, how, or what. 

The well is an old-fashioned one, with a long pole, 
weighted with disabled plow-points on one end, and a big 
bucket on the other. They manage, by extreme exertion 
to get this down to the water, and haul it up and down 
three or four times, with imminent risk of drowning ; 
with what object I fail to see, until I hear a crash of 
glass, and then they let the sweep fly out of their hands 
with such violence, that the bucket breaks off, and falls 
down into the water with a terrific splash, at which 
they flee, and at a distance beckon to me to come on, as 
I stand bewildered where they have left me, at a loss to 
account for the necessity of previous action and sudden 
flight. 

‘‘Come on,” calls Missy, in a kind of half suppressed 
voice. “Eun.” 

I run. 

They then run on in front of me a little way, then 
stop, and run again, and at every halt call on me to 
“Come on.” 

I am getting tired of the checkered race, when they 
stop until I join them, and each takes a hand of mine 
and turning down a long path, that seems to have no 
end, they drag me between them, and do not stop until 
they are fully half a mile from the water scape. 

Then they pause, breathless, and sit down in the cor- 


Mother Carey* 8 Chickens, etc. 


91 


ner of the fence on the grass, and Missy takes off her 
hat and fans herself vigorously, and Spicy Ann manip- 
ulates her slat bonnet to serve the same purpose. 

“Why didn’t you go back to the house and tell some- 
body to fix that well,” I begin. 

Missy interrupts. 

“Oh, you mustn’t tell. It will be real mean if you 
tell, won’t it Spicann ?” 

Spicy Ann nods. 

“Of course I won’t tell on you,” I say indignantly. 

“Cross your heart ?” 

“No,” I say. “I said I won’t tell, and I won’t, but — ” 

“Spicann, where did the hands go to work this morn - 
ing?” 

“In de low gruns.” 

“Well, let’s go then.” 

Spicy Ann jumps up, not to go to any low grounds, as 
one might suppose, from the remarks, but to some en- 
tirely different location. 

They cross the road, climb a fence, and walk along a 
narrow path beside a ditch, until they come to an open- 
ing, which discloses a watermelon patch. 

“Can you tell if watermelons are ripe ?” asks Missy. 

“Not until they are cut open.” 

Missy turns up a contemptuous lip. 

“Spicann, do you think they are ripe ?” 

Spicy Ann shakes her head dubiously. 

“Go thump that one.” 

They are none of them ripe, they are not even half 
ripe, for they are not much larger than a good-sized 
cocoanut. I venture to call their attention to that fact. 


92 Virginia. 

but am confronted with my previous asseveration of 
ignorance. 

Spicy Ann thumps it, and shakes her head. 

‘‘Try another.’’ 

Spicy Ann tries another. 

“Pull it.” 

Spicy Ann pulls it. 

“Break it open.” 

Spicy Ann drops it on a large stone, and it splits. 
Only the faintest shade of pink is visible, but Missy 
takes a handfull out of one half and motions Spicy Ann 
to take a handfull out of the other. They cram it into 
their mouths, with the juice all running down all over 
their clothes. It does not make much difference about 
Spicy Ann’s garb, but Missy’s pretty little muslin is a 
sight. 

“Take some,” says Missy to me. 

I take a small pinch, but I already know the very un- 
savory taste, and I look with amazement at them, for 
the most lucious fruit could hardly yield any further 
atisfaction, although as they only take two handfulls 
and throw the rest in the ditch, plainly, something be- 
yond the condition of the fruit, inspires it. 

Then they go on a little further, and Missy directs 
another to be pulled, with, of course, the same results, 
and then the ditch. 

“Are they yours, to do as you please?” I ask. 

“Yes, certainly, but don’t tell.” 

I think they pull over a dozen, and “grab” (no other 
expression occurs to me,) their little black and begrimed 
hands in them, eat one mouthful apiece, with evident 


Mother Oarey^s OhichenSy etc. 


93 


enjoyment, offering me a mouthful every time, which I 
a8 regularly decline. 

Finally they tire of this feast of the Piets and Scots, 
and after throwing the last one in the ditch, they walk 
further afield, and pull ear after ear of corn, looking for 
corn “babies.” They find a great many, and have de- 
stroyed a great deal of corn, when they hear a bell ring. 
Aunt Winnie’s way of calling them. 

“Run Spicann,” says Missy. “I know it’s late. Don’t 
tell,” she adds to me. Spicy Ann being already drilled 
in diplomacy. 

They fiy again. This time towards the house. “Fly” 
seems to be the only appropriate expression of the move- 
ments they make, like “Mother Carey’s chickens” skim- 
ming the waves. They are both very light and slim, 
and Missy’s cape flutters in the wind like the wings of a 
bird. 

She is warm and red, as well as considerably sunburnt, 
when we arrive at the house, and says that they have 
been in the garden. 

She is discovered to have lost her gold chain, and ac- 
cuses at first Spicy Ann of taking it. 

“Or, maybe that girl,” pointing to me. 

“I ! I ! !” 

Naturally, I am very indignant, and am kept from 
bursting into a flood of tears, by the family hastening to 
inform me that nobody thinks for an instant, that I 
have it. 

I find that it is a habit of Missy’s, to accuse the first 
person on whom her eyes rest, of whatever delinquency 
occurs. 


94 


Virginia. 


I do not enumerate all the incidents that outraged me 
— only the most salient ones. 

The gold chain is searched for, fruitlessly, in the gar- 
den. 

After dinner, I decide not to go out, and ask for a 
book to read. 

“Eead? Can you read?’’ asks Missy. ‘T don’t be- 
lieve it.” 

I redden furiously. I am an only child, and made 
much of, and have never had my word doubted before. 

The occasion is passed over for the sake of peace. 

Aunt Winnie says : ‘‘Missy, where are your books ?” 

“Spicann, do you know ?” asks Missy, in her turn, in 
a tone to deter Spicy Ann from telling, should she know. 

But Spicy Ann’s eye is on her mistress, and she says : 
“In de garrit.” 

“Go up, then, an bring some down.” 

“Spicann shan’t bring my books down. If I can’t 
read them, that girl shan’t.” 

“Fie ! Fie !” says Aunt Winnie. “What will Evelyn 
think of you ? Can’t read and won’t let her read either ? 
Why, she will read them to you — ” coaxingly, 

“I won’t listen to no reading.” 

“Florrie,” says Aunt Winnie, who thinks that grown 
persons ought not to get out of patience with children’s 
vagaries, “can’t you get Evelyn something to read ? I 
think, myself, she had better be in the fresh air, she 
looks so pale.” 

“It’s awful hot, mother,” says Cousin Indiana. “I’ll 
look for something in the parlor. Don’t you get up, 
Florrie, I’m on my way upstairs, anyhow.” 


Mother Carey^s Chickens, etc. 


95 


“So am I, for that matter,” says Florrie. 

Cousin Indiana brings me some picture books from 
the table, and says : 

“We have not a great many books, Mother does not 
approve of reading novels.” 

“Why, Cousin Indy?” 

“She thinks it a waste of time and a deterioration of 
character to spend so much sympathy on just ficticious 
personages. She does not mind us reading History, 
which is truth.” 

(Truth!) 

“Do you really like to read History ?” 

“No, I donT believe I do, but I do not read much any- 
how, I would rather do fancy work, tat, or embroider. 
Powhatan is the only one of us who ever read a great 
deal. He had a great many books.” 

“Where are they ?” 

“Father attributed his romantic marriage to too much 
literature, so he sent all of his books to him, though he 
did think once of burning them up. 

“Just Imagine I” 

“Come up when you are ready,” and she ascends. 

I settle myself in a corner of the hall, and turn over 
the leaves of the books. They are not very satisfactory, 
their contents being pictures, with some sort of descrip- 
tions attached, but having nothing else and being quite 
determined not to go out with Missy again that day, I 
prepare to make the best out of them. 

When I commence to read. Missy summons Spicy Ann 
by a look, to her side. All the rest are taking a nap, ex- 
cept aunt, who has made herself comfortable in a sacque. 


96 


Virginia. 


and an armed rocking chair, and is knitting industri- 
ously, and humming some old tune, with equal vigor. 

Missy commences. 

‘‘Spicann, you know that I know my A B O’s, don’t 
you?” 

Spicy Ann nods. 

‘‘You know I know A was an apple pie, don’t you ? 
I wish I had one now, don’t you ?” 

Spicy Ann nods. 

“Ax Mammy ter make one termorrer, she’ll do it.” 

“Eemind me in the morning.” 

Spicy Ann nods. 

“You know A was an apple pie, too, don’t you ?” 

Spicy Ann nods. 

“Well then, when I say, A was — one time, you say 
one. Now, begin. A was an apple pie.” 

“A was an apple pie.” 

“No, you say : B bit it.” 

After saying it over two or three times as hard as 
they can “stave,” as Spicy Ann calls it, they commence 
to sing it, and make themselves so noisy and disagreea- 
ble, that I despair and start up stairs, after replacing 
the book. Finding that I have lost, or left my hand- 
kerchief, I have to retrace my steps, however unwillingly. 
Missy and Spicy Ann have gone, but Uncle Hugh is say- 
ing in a very exasperated voice : 

“And I believe that a dozen or more were all smashed 
and actually thrown into the ditch, and I cannot im 
agine (I wish I could) who could have done it — and ever 
so much corn — just destroyed wilfully.” 

“Some of the negroes, perhaps?” suggests Aunt 


Mother Carey* s Chickens^ etc. 


97 


Winnie, with a pucker of her usually calm brow. 

“Every single one in the cornfield with me. I even 
had their dinner sent.’’ 

“Could it have been the hogs 

“Hogs don’t pull corn, Winnie, nor throw melons in 
ditches.” 

Aunt Winnie says smoothly : 

“Perhaps some tramp, or somebody owing a grudge.” 
But nevertheless considers it wholly unaccountable. 
“As I don’t think we have an enemy in the world,” says 
she in a Christian frame of mind. 

“Unaccountable — of course!” snaps Uncle Hugh, in 
an irritated voice, and with a twist of his lip, as he jerks 
the clean handkerchief, as if he would like to make a 
halter of it. 

I am aghast, as I had never thought for a moment 
that the wanton destruction of the morning was really 
an injury to her father’s property. Considering unripe 
watermelons as rather useless, and in no wise refiecting 
upon their growth. 

No suspicions seem to attach to Missy, and of course, 
I do not tell. 

Then Uncle Hugh goes on to relate that somebody 
has broken the well bucket, and that the milk bottle is 
also broken, and also in the well, and says : 

“I shall have to stop two or three hands, right in the 
middle of the harvesting too, to clean it out; a great an- 
noyance. That couldn’t have been done by tramps, nor 
hogs neither, AVinnie.” 

I feel horribly guilty, and am very unhappy for the 
rest of the day, and remember with much relief that 

7 


98 Virginia. 

Colin is coming on Saturday, and that that is the even- 
ing of that day. 

Next day Mammy comes in with Missy’s cape, all 
rumpled and soiled and damp, and says that one of the 
hands found it “way down in the old orchard path.” 

“How in the world did it get there ?” says Aunt Win- 
nie. 

“I wonder,” says Missy, raising limpid blue eyes to 
her Mother’s face, “I wonder if the wind, or that little 
black puppy dog, carried it out there in the night,” and 
looking at Spicy Ann, out of the corner of her eye. 

“I wonder,” echoes Spicy Ann. 

“That puppy is getting to be a nuisance,” says Aunt 
Winnie. “I wish Ocie would send him to the Quarters.” 

After they go out. Mammy looks suspiciously at Spicy 
Ann. “Dat luk like watermilyun juice, on dat cape an’ 
frock ?” 

“Hish er minit. Mammy,” says Spicy Ann, raising her 
hand and her voice. “Who-o ? Mam ? I beers ole Mis’ 
callin’ uv me.” And she darts off. 

“Sum dese here days,” says mammy to herself, “I'm 
gwine ter stop ole Mis’ callin’ so much.” 


Next morning Aunt Winnie says: 

“Missy, don’t you and Evelyn want to go and gather 
some blackberries ?” 

“Where ?” 

“Anywhere that you can find them.” 

“Can we go down by the pond ?” inquires Missy. 


Mother Gareifs Chickens, etc. 


99 


Though why she ever asks permission, I do not know, as 
she has only the declared, or undeclared, intention of 
following her own wishes. 

“I am almost afraid,"^ says Aunt Winnie, in a half 
hesitant voice. 

‘‘Well, if I can't go there, I won't go at all.” 

“The pond must be dry now. Mother,” says Florrie. 
“I don't think there can be any danger.” 

“Well," says Aunt Winnie, “Tell Mammy to give you 
three little buckets, and get as many berries as you can. 
See which will bring in the most. You would like to 
see blackberries growing, wouldn't you, Evelyn ?” 

I have slept over yesterday's shortcomings, and I would 
like to gather the ripe berries, myself, to tell my friends 
and schoolmates at home; and so I am beguiled into 
taking a bucket and starting with the two. 

We do not have far to go to find the berries, which 
grow luxuriantly in the fence corners, on the edges of 
the cultivated fields, and are now large, well ripe and 
lucious, I am quite delighted. 

Missy and Spicy Ann eat more than they put in their 
buckets, while I am steadily, and with much pride, fill- 
ing mine; exercising much self-control, in seeing how 
few I can eat, and thinking how nice they are going to 
taste with the rich fresh cream, always to command at 
Aunt Winnie's. On seeing a bright yellow butterfiy 
hovering over the vines. Missy and Spicy Ann give chase. 
It flies toward me. 

“Catch it, Evelyn.” 

But I fail. It flies further and further, and calling 
me to “Come on,” they race quite a distance, before they 


100 


Virginia. 


capture it. When I reach them, Spicy Ann is holding 
it between two fingers, and looking to Missy for instruc- 
tions. 

“What are you going to do with it ?” I inquire. 

“If you bite off its head,” explains Missy, “and wish 
for a new dress, like one of the spots on the wings, you 
are sure to get it.” 

“But that’s cruel!” I say, earnestly. 

“It ain’t, is it Spicy Ann ?” 

Spicy Ann shakes her head. 

“What a fuss about nuthin’,” Missy exclaims. 
“They’re nuthin’ but worms with wings. Give it to 
me.” She takes it and eyes the spots reflectively. “I’d 
like a dress like that blue spot there. You bite it. Spicy 
Ann,” holding it out. 

“I’ll git de dress den.” 

“You bite it anyhow, and I’ll see about that.” 

Spicy Ann bites it off, gingerly, then spits it out, and 
turns to the pond for water to wash her mouth. 

“What did it taste like ?” asks Missy, curiously. 

“Bitter,” answers Spicy Ann, replacing with a black- 
berry. 

“Where, now, are the buckets ?” 

“Done leff um by de fence cornder.” 

“Go back after them.” 

Spicy Ann departs. 

Missy decides that the berries there by the pond are 
even bigger than those she left, and that she can’t wait 
for Spicy Ann. So she gathers up her dress and com- 
mences to fill it with the berries. By the time Spicy 
Ann returns with the buckets, she is dripping with the 


Mother Caretfs Ghichens, etc. loi 

red juice. Her face and hands already plentifully be- 
smeared. 

‘‘Laws, Missy,” says Spicy Ann, “Mammy gwine ter 
make er awful fuss ’bout dat frock.” 

Missy shrugs her shoulders, and empties the contents 
of her impromptu basket into the bucket. 

Then they commence to try their fortunes with the 
love vines that grow among the bushes, and initiate me 
into this fascinating pastime. A truly sybilline oracle, 
particularly if your sweetheart’s name begins with 0 or 
C. But as I steadily refuse to tell her whom I have 
chosen for mine, she says that she is going to tell Ocie 
that I said that .he was my sweetheart. As I am very 
bashful about boys, as well as considerably epris with 
Ocie, I blush guiltily, and she calls Spicy Ann to wit- 
ness. 

Then they take off her shoes, and she wades all around 
the side of the pond, all in the mud, and after bedrag- 
gling herself until she looks scarcely human, she pro- 
poses for all of us to try to walk the fence, barefoot. 

“Don’t you remember how pretty that circus girl 
looked on the top of that horse. Spicy Ann ?” 

Assent from Spicy Ann. 

“Well, I just bet she learned on top the fence ” And 
up she climbs. 

“And if I get the blue dress, I’m going to choose a 
blue tarletan, and have it made all over flounces, and I 
haven’t made up my mind, but I might go off with the 
next circus that comes. Don’t tell, Evelyn.” 

After balancing herself. Spicy Ann following, as a 
matter of course, she dares me to do it. But on taking 


102 


Virginia. 


mine off, the briers and stones hurt my feet, so I put them 
on again and stand looking at them. They are rery 
agile, and evidently adepts, and Missy taunts me with 
the fact of my inability, which is very hard to bear. By 
and by. Missy gets a splinter in her foot. After vainly 
trying to get it out, she begins to cry. She is hot and 
tired out, and has entirely lost her temper ; and having 
begun to cry she continues to enlouden, if the word may 
be used. 

‘T am going to the house, come on, Spicann.’’ 

I have my tin pail in my hand, but on reminding 
Missy of hers, she kicks them, pails and all, into the 
pond, and snatches mine, and tosses it after them, and 
then starts to run. Spicy Ann and myself bringing up 
the rear. She screams all the way, hopping occasionally 
on the splintered foot, and presenting, I may say, a rather 
appalling appearance. 

Mother and sisters rush to the door, and on seeing 
her dishevelled and “gormed” aspect they run on down 
the walk to meet her, and all scream in chorus. 

“Oh ! What has happened to my child 

“Oh! Poor little Missy.” (Tears.) 

“’Taint nuthin’. Mis’,” Spicy Ann says coolly, for 
Missy does nothing but scream louder and louder, at the 
signs of sympathy. “Nothin’ but blackberries, an’ a 
splinter.” 

Missy continues to scream on. 

“They take her into the house, hovering over her and 
touching her here and there, to ascertain if she should 
be injured at all, meanwhile casting dubious glances at 
my remaining in a presentable state, while Missy seems 


Mother Carey's Chickens^ etc, 103 

to have come to so much grief. And I feel that they 
think I am at fault, somehow. 

Florrie calls Mammy and they take off the truly ob- 
jectionable looking clothes, give her a bath, locate and 
extract the splinter, after which she subsides into sobs. 
They curl her hair over again, and offer her her prettiest 
dresses and ribbons to choose from, and she sits snifding 
in her Mother’s lap, and, amid many fond and coaxing 
words, she falls asleep. 

Cousin Logan, who was in the house at the time, and 
has been as far as the door, but his apprehensions re- 
lieved, has retreated to the sofa, and is now placidly 
watching the proceedings. 

‘T think Missy must be sick,” says her mother, kiss- 
ing the top of her head, softly. ‘‘Would you send for 
the doctor, Logan ?’ 

“No, Mother, I don’t think I would.” 

“What do you suppose makes her cry so much ?” 

“I think,” says Logan drily, “on second thought, 
that perhaps Dr. Green of Peach street, might do her 
some good. He is a very successful practitioner among 
children, I have heard. I think Missy is ‘blue-moulding 
for want of a beating.’ ” 

“Oh, Logan!” reproachfully the chorus, “would you 
lay your hand on this child ?” 

“No, Mother, I wouldn’t. I am sure that my life 
would not be safe in this house, if I did. But that is 
what she needs.” 

He laughs and retires, amid the indignant glances of 
all the feminine persuasion, except myself, and no one 
will doubt my hearty agreement with him. 


104 


Virginia, 


Next morning, Missy and Spicy Ann go out by them- 
selves. Before long, I hear Aunt Winnie’s lamentations. 
They have managed to kill a lot of little chickens, by 
untieing the hens, and letting them run in the wet grass, 
with their broodlings. But Aunt Winnie fully believes 
that Missy does not know any better. 

‘^Though she will, next time,” she says affectionately. 

Spicy Ann is never called into account, as it seems 
that she must mind Missy. Unless, occasionally, when 
she trenches on Mammy’s preserves ; when. Mammy, who 
has seen no sign of development of black wings, on Spicy 
Ann’s shoulders, at least, takes upon herself to wield 
a rod of scorpions. 

In the evening company come in, and Mammy is told 
to prepare refreshments, and leaves us in the porch. 
Missy proposes a walk. Not knowing exactly what to 
do with myself, I consent. 

We walk a little distance into the edge of the woods, 
and Missy dares me to walk on a log, which is lying in- 
nocently beside the path. 

Seing no reason against, and no danger in so doing, 
I jump on it with one spring, and fall through. 

It is entirely decayed throughout, though it has a fair 
outside of bark. 

They pull me out by my arms, scratching and tearing 
me considerably, and when I get out I look down at my 
smarting shins and see multitudes, millions of swarming 
black ants and ticks. My stockings are covered with 
the creeping things. 

Missy and Spicy Ann jump back from me, and as I 
turn to walk forward, they keep jumping back ; then 


Mother Carey^s Chickens^ etc. 105 

they finally turn around and run swiftly away from me. 
The ants are beginning to sting. 

I take my handkerchief and try to wipe them off. 
They swarm then, on my bare arms, and I commence to 
cry; for they hurt dreadfully, and I am afraid they are 
poisonous. 

I run desperately, calling after the two fiying figures, 
feeling acutely how treacherous they are. The insects 
are biting and stinging me, but the stings do not hurt 
me any worse than my wounded affections. 

When I get to the house they are not in view, but 
they have apparently done good service, for they have 
told Mammy of my condition. She meets and carries 
me to her cabin and, tells me to wait just outside the 
door until, she spreads a sheet. 

Then she lifts me in, and undresses me on it, and then 
gathers sheet and clothes together, and dumps every- 
thing into a tub of scalding water, prepared for the 
washing. 

She wraps me in an old bedquilt, smelling of tobacco : 
for most negroes smoke ; while she goes into the house 
for fresh clothing. 

And there I sit, and hear them calling to me from the 
house, to come and take leave of my departing friends, 
who are friends of my parents. Of course I canT 
answer. No doubt, they think I am a very ill bred little 
girl, and I know that I am a very ill used one. 

Mammy bathes me and puts salt and water on the 
bites, and comforts me the best that she can; but I am 
past comfort. 

She then says that I must go on into the house and 


io6 Virginia. 

get some ‘‘Iceland snow,” which she thinks will make 
me feel better. 

I do not know exactly what she means until Ocie asks 
me how I like “Iceland snow.” 

“I don’t understand,” I begin, for I think that per- 
haps they are teasing me. 

“Why, didn’t you have some of the new ice cream ? 
How was that ?” turning to some one for explanation. 

“She wasn’t here,” says Aunt Winnie, “and Missy 
said that she didn’t care for it, so I gave the freezer to 
Spicy Ann.” 

“Well, it is too bad. I assure you, Evelyn, that it 
was the best thing I ever ate.” 

When Aunt Winnie hears of the accident, in the over- 
flowing sympathy, that she has saved from the novels, 
she is perfectly certain that poor little Missy never meant 
the least harm. 

Missy and Spicy Ann giggle all the evening, and I 
feel perfectly sure that they knew perfectly well what 
they were about. 

Nobody knows how glad I am that only one day re- 
mains to me. 

Missy has a little bed in her Mother’s room, but fre- 
quently she varies her quarters, by electing to stay with 
one or the other of her sisters, who esteem it a great fa- 
vor. To-night she distinguishes Florrie. 

“I am going to sleep to-night with you, Florrie, and I 
want you to undress me.” 

“All right, Lady Bird,” 

However, when Missy’s bedtime comes, Florrie has a 


Mother Garexfs GMchens, etc. 


107 


beau, and proposes for the pleasing task of disrobing her 
sister to be performed by Mammy. 

‘‘Mammy shan’t touch me.” 

“Come on, now, Florrie, right now,” says the czarina. 
When she gets to the top of the stairs and finds that 
B’lorrie is not with her, she shrieks for Florrie at the top 
of her voice. 

Florrie, knowing the futility of remonstrance, goes up 
and begins to pull off the clothes, rather unceremoniously. 

Missy struggles and jerks, all ways at once, but Flor- 
rie manages to get them off in a bunch, and turns around 
for the nightrobe, and when she turns back, Missy has 
them on again, and is sitting like a locust, all open in 
the back, and steadily refuses to budge. 

“If i can’t have my clothes taken off properly, I shan’t 
have my clothes taken off at all. Now there !” 

Florrie stands with the gown helplessly. 

“Spicy Ann, pull off Missy’s shoes.” 

Missy kicks Spicy Ann, who falls back just beyond 
the reach of her toes. 

Florrie, not wishing to give her beau an unpleasant 
idea of either herself or her sister, does not know what 
to do. 

Just then Mammy comes in after Spicy Ann, and Flor- 
rie hands her the gown in silence, and points in dumb 
show to Missy, and runs down stairs. 

“Come, Missy, let me ondress you ; I ain’t got no time 
ter fool.” 

Missy catches the chair under her by the rungs, with 
both hands, and clenches her teeth. 

Mammy vainly endeavors to disengage her, by force 


io8 


Virginia. 


and by persuasion ; but is compelled to desist, for, with- 
out dislocating Missy’s limbs, she finds it an impos- 
sibility. 

“I’m gwine down aft’ ole Mis’,” she says in despera- 
tion, as she wipes the profuse perspiration from her face. 

“I aint feared of no ‘Ole Mis’,’ ” says Missy. “I aint 
feared of the devil herself.” 

“Laws, chile, you better be. If uver I knowed any 
body dat ought ter be, you dat one!” Mammy plainly 
has not the unlimited faith in Missy, entertained by the 
rest of the family. 

“Come, Missy, let me ondress you,” making another 
effort. 

“I want Florrie. Go down and tell Florrie she’s 
wicked to promise — ” 

“I aint gwine aft’ Miss Florrie, an’ she in de parlor 
wid her sweetheart ; I’m gwine arft’ Marster.” 

As I have seen very little of Uncle Hugh, I do not 
know what amount of terror this threat may convey, but 
Missy sits perfectly still for a little while and does not 
open her mouth, as she appears to be listening intently 
to the direction of Mammy’s footsteps. 

Spicy Ann has remained exactly where she was when 
Missy kicked her. As the last remaining sound of 
Mammy’s steps die out, Missy opens a quarrel with 
Spicy Ann, the first I have heard, but I suppose the 
kicking rankles, for Spicy Ann answers back bravely. 
They are telling each other very unwholesome truths, 
and disclosing unexpected depths of depravity, when I 
essay something to divert them, and Missy whirls around 
and fastens on me, literally ; and utters the same succes- 


Mother Carey* s Chickens^ etc, 109 

sion of shrieks that announced her presence the first 
day. 

It is impossible to stop her, or to disengage myself, or 
to shake her off, And when Mammy returns, in Aunt 
Winnie’s company, plainly both think we are fighting, 
and proceed to reprove us both. 

I feel that it is beneath me to try and justify myself ; 
also that it is very hard for anybody to think that I am 
so undignified, as to fight. 

Missy calls Spicy Ann to witness that I began it. 

Cousin Indy comes up, to help quell the disturbance, 
for Florrie’s sake, and between them they bear Missy off. 
But I can see that they think I am very much to 
blame, being so much older than Missy, who is ‘‘only a 
baby,” 

I cry myself to sleep and say, over and over, to my- 
self, that never one of my children shall ever spend the 
night away from home. 


The next evening Cousin Logan has the buggy on the 
lawn ready to start for a drive somewhere, just as Missy 
and I come down, from being dressed. 

“Evelyn, would you and Missy like to ride to the 
forks of the road with me?” 

“I would, I thank you,” I don’t feel called on to say 
what Missy may choose. 

“Get your bonnet then.” 

I run for my hat, and come back to find Missy and 


no 


Virginia. 


Spicy Ann standing by the buggy, holding the tongue 
of a little rough wagon. 

“I want to go,” Missy is saying, “but I don’t want to 
ride in the buggy, I want to hitch my wagon behind, 
and me and Spicann ride in it.” 

“You can’t do it. You and Spicy Ann can get in the 
buggy, but I can’t let yoa get hurt with that thing.” 

“I shan’t go then.” 

“All right,” says he, with composure, “jump up. Spicy 
Ann.” 

“Spicann belongs to me, and she shan’t go if I 
can’t hitch my wagon.” 

“All right. I’ll take Evelyn a little way, and bring 
her back. You wont mind, will you, Evelyn?” 

I do mind, but as it is unavoidable, I signify my 
willingness to do anything that will suit him. 

When we get to the gate, he has to stop to wait for 
the gate to be opened ; and Missy and Spicy Ann have 
time to catch up, and by some sleight of hand, manage 
to fasten the wagon to the buggy and then jump in. 

Instead of, as I expect him, peremptorily demanding 
that they shall unfasten it and return, he smiles indul- 
gently at their undisguised sense of cleverness and 
craftiness, and Missy’s triumph. 

He holds the horse in, so that it will not go too fast 
for the wagon. But what is slow for the horse, is too fast 
for the little wagon wheels, and by the time we are 
nearly at the forks of the road, one wheel has rubbed 
itself off at the axle, and Missy and her maid fall over 
into the dust. 

Spicy Ann picks herself up with her usual stolidity 


Mother Carey’s Ghichens, etc. iii 

and promptitude, but Missy lies flat in the middle of 
the road, and of course, shrieks. 

Logan grows white, and reins the horse up. 

‘‘Get out, Evelyn, the best you can, I can't let go the 
reins with you in here.” 

I climb out and run to Missy. She is not hurt, I 
think, but she keeps on rolling and screeching, until 
Logan has fastened the horse, and hurried back to her. 
He picks her up and feels all her joints, and begs her to 
tell him if she is really hurt, or only frightened ; but 
she neither answers nor stops; until he shows her a 
quarter and promises to give it to her, if she will just 
tell him that she is not hurt. 

“Give Spicy Ann one too," she resumes her usual 
tone of voice, so immediately, that it is in itself reas- 
suring. He gives a smile and a sigh of relief, but begs 
her to say that she is not hurt. 

She shakes her head and laughs. 

“Give Spicy Ann the quarter, first." 

He laughs, and will it be believed, he kisses that 
naughty, dusty little mouth. 

“I am in such a hurry, or I would take you back 
home, but it is not far and you and Evelyn can't get 
lost on a perfectly straight road. Go straight home. 
Missy. Here is a quarter for you, Evelyn, for not fall- 
ing out.” 

I put my hand behind me and shake my head. ( He 
recollects to bring me back a lovely bottle of perfume 
from the store, and I waver in my allegience to Ocie.) 

He unfastens the cause of disaster, and drives swiftly 
away, looking back every few minutes, as long as he is 


II2 


Virginia. 


sight, and waving for us to go on. The ungrateful 
Missy and Spicy Ann sit still on the road, each with her 
quarter shining in her hand, and discussing what is to 
to be done with it. 

“Why didn’t you have sense enough to take that quar- 
ter Logan offered you. You might have given it to me 
when Logan had gone, if you didn’t want to keep it.” 

“Father doesn’t allow me to accept money from 
strangers.” 

“Laws, just think, Spicyann! Why Mr. So-and-so 
always gives me a dollar, and Mr. What-you-call-him 
always gives me a half-dollar, don’t he Spicann ? And 
Logan is kin to you, too. Spicann and me have given 
a party of presents, havn’t we Spicann?” 

Spicyann nods. 

“I could have taken your quarter, and Spicy Ann’s, and 
bought a big wax doll. Ninny.” 

Logan left us at the forks of the road, but by fussing 
so much witn Missy I do not know which to take ; they 
all look alike to me. 

“Let’s go home, now,” I say two or three times to 
Missy, unheeded. 

At last she rises. 

“Come on,” she says to me. To Spicy Ann she whis- 
pers something that sounds like : “I am going to pay 
Logan out.” 

We go along the path, and we walk a long ways. We 
come to a small brick house, built half way in the 
ground. I inquire if any one lives there. 

They answer derisively. 

It is the ice house, and fully a mile from the big 


Mother Garey^s Chickens, etc. 


113 

house. Down by the ice pond, but of course I do not 
know that ; but it dawns on me that I never saw it be- 
fore. 

‘‘Missy,” I say hesitatingly, “can we be lost?” 

She and Spicy Ann glance at each other, and look ap- 
prehensively about. 

“Spicann,” exclaims Missy, “I believe we are lost.” 

“Lost !” I say, “Lost !” For I did not really realize it 
as a truth, when I said so. 

“Yes,” she repeats, “Lost.” 

“Aint you afraid ?” 

“Yes,” she says slowly, “Fm afraid, aint you Spicann?” 

An acquiescent nod. 

“Oh, what shall we do ? What shall we do ?” I am 
in a panic now. “Will anything in the woods catch us? 
Are there any wild animals ? Bears ? Wolves ?” 

“I don’t know,” she says. “Spicann and me never saw 
any, but we’ve never been out at night before, have we 
Spicann ?” 

“No, nuvver.” 

“But,” she says, “somebody might steal us. I’ve 
heard of children being stolen, havn’t you, Spicann ?” 

“Mis’ Sminney dun tole me ’bout suvral.” Mis’ 
Sminney is the overseer’s wife. 

“We must hide,” says Missy decisively. “If you hear 
anything move — ” 

“Hide where ?” 

“In the hayricks over there,” she points to the other 
side of the ice house ; (nearer home, had I but known.”) 

“Hayricks ? What are hayricks ?” 

“Where they stack the hay for the cattle in winter. 

8 


Virginia, 


1 14 

I don’t suppose father will care, if we do tear them down, 
to keep from being eat up by lions and tigers, or being 
stolen. He always makes out that he is awful fond of 
me, when he has got time to look at me. Don’t he, Spic- 
ann ? Though he did make an awful fuss when Ocie 
and the school boys slid them all to pieces once.” 

They continue to exchange remarks, which culminate 
in frightful stories of children being stolen ; into ghost 
stories, and other fearful occurrences, told oyer kitchen 
fires by darkies, to each other, when they had better 
have been asleep; and by Spicy Ann repeated to her 
mistress. 

I am quite appalled at our situation. The sun has 
gone down, and it is beginning to grow dark in the 
shadow of the woods. 

wish we had some supper,” I say dolefully, trying 
to keep the tears out of my eyes. 

“Feel in your pocket, Spicann, and see if you have got 
anything to eat? I haven’t got anything in mine, ex- 
cept a hole.” 

They frequently put biscuit or cake in their pockets, 
at their meals; a habit I have held, hitherto, in supreme 
disgust. 

Spicy Ann finds an outside crust of cornbread, and 
they divide it into three pieces, as nearly as biting and 
breaking, alternately, can compass. I was afraid that 
they might leave me out of their calculations, and not 
think it necessary to share with me. I am not fond of 
cornbread, and it might be cleaner ; but I am very hun- 
gry, and eat it with appetite. Under the circumstances, 
it tastes very nicely. 


Mother Garey^s Ohickens, etc. 115 

‘‘Do you hear anything ?” interrupts Missy. “Listen, 
Spicann! Listen hard!” 

Spicy Ann fails to hear anything out of ordinary. 

“Let’s run and hide, anyway. It might be too late, 
after we are seen.” 

We run to the hayricks, and Missy and Spicy Ann, 
hand over hand, pull the hay down, until they make an 
aperture, large enough for me to stand upright. Then 
they push me in, and cover me with the hay. 

“Don’t say a word, and don’t breathe so loud,” whis- 
pers Missy, “and don’t answer if you hear any one call, 
and be sure not to stick your head out. If you hear 
anybody come. Spicy Ann and I’ll be right here, in an- 
other hayrick. Somebody will have to hunt for us from 
the house, when they miss us, but don’t you say one 
word, unless you hear me answer; because it might be 
somebody come for us, to kill us.” 

“Don’t leave me by myself,” I cry. 

“Oh, I can’t make a hole big enough for us all to get 
together in one hayrick. But don’t you be ’fraid, Eve- 
lyn. I’ll be in the very next, and can see anything, and 
I’ll know what to do.” 

They pull some more hay down, over me, and I hear 
the whispering and scuffling in the hay. Then Missy 
calls to me in smothered tones : 

“Don’t say anything more, Evelyn, and remember 
that I am here.” 

She seems to be a good deal braver than I would have 
expected of her, and puts me to shame. 

I hear calling, and calling. And shrink down in an 
ecstacy of fear. For as Missy doesn’t answer, I feel afraid to 


n6 


Virginia, 


I hear all sorts of Toices, and steps, but my heart 
beats so loudly, that I thiuk maybe that I deceive my- 
self. Still Missy doesn’t answer. 

All at once, I hear a hoarse voice say, brokenly : 

‘‘Perhaps we had better have the pond dragged — get 
the well-hooks — I see footprints.” 

I pull aside the wisps of straw, as softly as I can, 
and recognize, with a strange man, my own cousin 
Logan. 

As there can be no occasion of fear from him, in de- 
fiance of Missy’s caution, I slide out into the moonlight. 

“Good gracious alive, Evelyn ! What in the world 
are you doing here ? And where is Missy?” 

“I don’t know,” I say crying, hysterically. 

“Don’t know? Why, I left you together. Why didn’t 
you go on straight home, when I left you ?” 

“I didn’t know what straight was, Logan. We got 
lost.” 

“But Missy!” he interrupts, impatiently. “Missy! 
Missy! What became of her? She can’t be lost! She 
and Spicy Ann together?’' 

“I don’t know.” 

“Missy! Missy!” calls Logan, starting the birds from 
their slumbers, and an owl flies out from a tree, shrill- 
ing: “Whoo! whoo!” 

Logan’s face turns whiter than ever the moonlight 
makes it. 

I do not know that it is regarded as an evil omen. 

“They must be somewhere near by,” I say. 

“But where ? Where ? Whv don’t they answer me, 
then ?” 


Mother Garey^s Ohickena, etc, 117 

“Perhaps,” I say consolingly, “they are smothered in 
the hay.” 

At which the two men commence to tear down every 
hayrick, one after another. I feel into the one nearest 
to me, and feel something cold to the touch. I shudder, 
and utter a sudden exclamation of alarm. 

Logan turns paler yet, and they haul out Spicy Ann, 
fast asleep, but no Missy. And Spicy Ann, in her be- 
wildered state of somnolency and surprise, does not know 
either. Then, indeed, we are in a state of wild alarm. 

The hayricks are level with the ground, and still no 
Missy ! 

Just then, a bell rings from the house, and Logan 
gives a loud, but somewhat tremulous answering cry. 

“Missy’s found!” 

We are met on the way to the house by two or three 
messengers, conveying the joyful tidings. 

Missy has taken advantage, of having covered me up, 
and the subsequent confusion, and failing to awaken 
Spicy Ann without alarming me also, has basely left us 
(after seeing Logan pass ) and run on to the house by 
herself, without meeting any one. She finds her mother 
on the verge of convulsions, Florrie in hysterics, while 
Cousin Indy is out with the men, searching wildly. 

She looks as calm as a summer sea, when we get in. 

Ocie asks : 

“Missy, how came you to think you lost ? I thought 
you and Spicy Ann could find your way all over the 
plantation blindfolded, night or day,” 

“Wasn’t nobody lost but Evelyn. Spicy Ann and me 
knew where we was all the time.” 


Virginia. 


ii8 

‘‘Then how came you to hide ?” asks Logan. 

“That girl told so many ghost stories that I got 
skeered.” 

“You ought not to have frightened this little thing, 
Evelyn.’' They look reproachfully at me, leider ohne 
werdey but they are so glad to have recovered Missy, 
that they forbear to give expression to their feelings. 
They are so relieved that she is safe, not drowned, not 
stolen, not injured, that they spend some time in kissing 
and hugging her, passing her for that purpose, from 
one to the other, before they remember that we have had 
no supper. This is a suggestion from Spicy Ann to 
Mammy. Mammy gets a nice hot supper, and they all 
want Missy to sleep with them, severally. 

While I, in my inmost soul, think that no punish- 
ment allowed by law, would be enough to atone for my 
uncalled-for fright. 

J ust for nothing too, for I hear her ask Spicy Ann to 
recollect that she has paid Logan olBf. 


Saturday I spend the morning in rather a zig-gaz per- 
formance, going backwards and forwards, from front 
porch, where I am watching for Colin, and the dining 
room, to consult the clock, studiously endeavoring to 
conceal the object of my migrations from the family, 
who notice how restless I have suddenly become. 

For once Missy’s voice sounds pleasantly to my ears, 
when she and Spicy Ann announce from the road gate, 
on which they have been swinging the whole afternoon, 
the sight of an arrival. 


Mother Garey's OhickenSy etc. 1 19 

When Colin drives me past the last panel of the 
worm fence, bordering the plantation, I feel free to 
draw my first free breath, which I do, with a long sigh 
of relief. 

Colin laughs. “I see that you still breathe the breath 
of life. I told you how it would be. Are you sorry I 
didn’t wait till the two weeks were up ?” 

‘^Oh, Colin!” 

“Was it so very terrible then?” 

“Well, dear?” as I throw myself into Aunt Ruth’s 
arms, with tears in my eyes. 

“The first day I counted the days. 

The next day I counted the hours. 

The next day I counted the minutes. 

The last day I counted the seconds.” 

“Just Missy?” asks Aunt Ruth anxiously. 

“Just Missy.” 

“We won’t say anything more about it then,” says 
Aunt Ruth, with her honorable sense of hospitality. 

And we buried her in oblivion. 

And yet, I hear that she grew up into a fine woman. 

I am glad to hear it. 

I never saw her afterwards. 

I really feel no desire to see her. 

And, somehow, I find that statement hard to believe. 

Don’t let’s talk about her any more. 
























